


The Shepherd and the Lawyer

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Lock, Fingering, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot, Rimming, Smut, john is trash, when isn't he tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lives as a shepherd pleasantly on a plot of land, isolated from the city. Sherlock works for a law firm that wants his land for construction. When sent off to coax John from his patch of heaven, Sherlock inevitably loses sight of his duty and falls in love instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago, I was sitting on a bench with my friend in the middle of our county fair. We were a few feet from a sheep when I had a random thought for a prompt, and now I've finally brought it to life.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> p.s. john's beard ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd decided to become a shepherd.

A quaint wooden house and a matching barn sat pleasantly like brown blemishes on a lush meadow landscape about three miles down the road of a growing city. They were strong and sturdy like the hands that built them, but the house still creaked in the middle of the night and certain rooms grew frighteningly cold in the winter. The long, rectangle barn beside it was younger, occasional soft bleats arising from the sleepy sheep inside it. A soft breeze carried the smell of thriving wild grass along the wind and weaved through a wind chime on the porch. As the late afternoon sun set against the green horizon, the shepherd who lived here put his plate in the kitchen cupboard. He watched with curious blue eyes through the window above the sink as the silver cylinders gently toned.

John Watson closed the cupboard and wiped his calloused hands on his trousers. He dragged a flannel across the counter as he left and flicked the lights off as he walked out of the kitchen. Satisfied and assured that the sheep were all in, John thought once more of how he'd come to live alone as a shepherd. 

Six years ago, he recounted, when he'd returned from serving in Afghanistan, he found it damn near impossible to resume his old life. The war had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a deep bullet wound in his shoulder. All of the friendships and relationships that he'd walked away from sparked no interest in him, and the looming presence of death followed him into every dark pub. He felt less like a war hero and more like a failure, and the pang in his shoulder had reminded him every day of how he ought to count himself lucky. Limping all the way to his therapist and back, John was restless at night and anxious at day. He was told to write his grievances, but what good would a few blog entries do a twenty-seven-year-old army doctor with PTSD? For countless weeks, perhaps a few months, John was utterly and helplessly lost. He was tired with the city and resentful at the life he left behind, so he figured he ought to start searching for anything else.

However, one lazy Tuesday morning, John was wandering the dirty streets, hoping to find something better. On his walk, John had hobbled by a shop with a little child's toy sitting in the window. White and pretty against the wide display, a plush sheep doll stared at him with black button eyes. It seemed to smile lopsidedly at him. John found himself somewhat entranced by this toy. It was so simple, created for one purpose only - to please a child. To give it something to hold onto at night and something to set at tea parties in the afternoon. It wasn't glamorous with aggrandizements glittering around it, it wasn't even particularly _adorable_. It was just there, sagging in its position on the shelf. John stared on, oblivious to the children and parents moving about in the store behind it. The toy reminded him of a giraffe he'd had, which reminded him of home. A home that felt so far from life now, it was almost comical.

But John stared on, simply awed. The sheep shouldn't be this interesting, he told himself. _It's a toy, and I'm a grown man_. But the soft fabric of its legs and the crinkled leather of its feet entranced him. He blinked with heavy lids, the fuzzy outline of the sheep still calling to him. Half of him knew this was silly, that he should've moved on by now to another pub, maybe find someone to spend the night with… But the other half accepted it, accepted that the sheep just kept _looking_ at him. 

And for the first time in months, John felt peaceful. What was more was that he _let_ himself feel this way without a second thought. He felt warm and happy and silly, as if he didn't have to be brave. He didn't have to dwell on the fact that he craved danger, that he loved having a gun in his hand, because the stuffed animal told him that everyone, even the most stern veterans, could get a second chance at peace. 

At this point, John had lost touch with the city around him. He'd walked towards the glass and cocked his head at the sheep. He clenched his fists at his sides and let the people brush past him. He didn't care if he was being clichéd, that this was unusual and far from dry kisses and damp sheets. John's let himself go, his mind calm and lucid.

Despite his dumb, somewhat far-gone eyes, something was coming to him, like a mystery on the verge of being solved. This almost idea, which had been nagging at his head and heart since he'd stopped on the street, nearly breached the surface now. John let it swallow him whole; John looked back at his roots. John remembered the things he loved before the war: his backyard, his pet gerbil, magazines with soft-eyed men in them. He'd liked animals and the wide fields a few blocks away from his childhood house. He liked being alone and the feeling of grass in his hands.

And then, like a warm, soapy handful of bubbles, John felt light. He had grasped onto an idea that was just familiar enough to follow into creation. John Watson smoothed down his coat and raised his chin proudly as he looked into the toy store window, eyes now sharp and determined. He'd decided to become a shepherd.

John almost bounced in his place on the sidewalk at the thought. Excited and jittery, he planned out his new life in pieces, cutting himself off mid-thought and leaping into pointless details. No more, he realized, would he have to explain himself to people who were "just trying to help." No more would the lives of his comrades be in his hands as they pleaded, "Make it stop, doctor." No more would he feel useless as blood stained uniforms and painful yelps assaulted his mind. He'd be able to get away. From his thoughts, perhaps not, but whatever this was, certainly. He wouldn't have to be the "poor young soldier" with a limp. Working as a sheep herder meant he wouldn't have to hide away in a small motel room, stuffy and irritable. He'd be alone, but in the best way. He'd have acres and a lovely flock he could talk to, raise, love. He'd have so many sheep! But how many? Ten? Twenty? Surely, he'd have some research to do. Oh, but what a small price that was for the peace and solidarity of a shepherd's life!

John was beaming now, probably frightful with madman eyes, but his mind churned brilliantly. A place for the sheep, John thought, and good things to eat. Hay or grass or clovers - he didn't know for sure. He knew he'd get it, though, as well as a warm place for the sheep to live. Well, and himself, he supposed. And oh! What blessed luck, he'd have just enough money to live simply. Luckily for him, what he'd saved up before the war was now only being spent on booze, so a hearty amount of that, mixed with a tender plea from a military grant would leave him with just enough to build a house and a barn. He'd work with his hands the way his uncles taught him, maybe hire a few workers, maybe even flirt with a few - who knows? John had the chance to start over staring at him in the face, and all he needed was two black button eyes to show him how to.

Back in his creaky, musty old house present day, which he'd patched up quite nicely, thank you very much, John smiled warmly and looked down at his toes. Yes, it'd been quite a strange happenstance all those years ago, but he was glad of it. And, should ever someone ask him how he became a shepherd, he could easily omit the stuffed sheep. In fact, shortly after meeting the toy, John called on his old bank and pulled out every cent. The interest his money collected did him well as he lugged his few possessions to a field just down the road of the city and found a broken down two-story house. He breathed a sigh of relief that there was already something there to work with, and after signing the proper papers for the property, John patched up the house and built a barn. A year later, with all his living relatives and old friends wondering where he'd gone, John settled in and began collecting his animals.

Forgetting if he'd brushed his teeth or not, John snuggled into his soft bed and reached to turn off the light. He was feeling sentimental, so he lulled himself to sleep by continuing his own story. Looking back, John recalled that the herd had started with Blaise, a ram he'd bought off an old farmer who taught him more than the Internet ever could.

Leaning back in his chair, the old farmer had told John about the religious affiliations of sheep, as well as their flocking patterns and mating rituals. By the end of that night, after listening intently to the man on the other side of a worn counter, John was well-versed in livestock culture and promised to take care of Blaise and his soon-to-be flock. Five or six months later, the ewes the farmer had brought over for Blaise to mate with had bore a few single lambs and one set of twins. Flustered and nervous at having so many wobbly-legged lambs clambering all over the place, John felt his heart swell at the fact that he'd get to raise and name them all. He'd sell their milk and wool and moderate the size of the flock. As time passed, John had hefted the sheep so they grew accustomed to the landscape and didn't wander onto the long roads winding around his little patch of heaven. 

With a few city passerby parking in the dirt and climbing up to ask to meet the animals, John spent the next few years happily raising his flock on his land and maintaining communications with his one friend, the old farmer. The pink-faced children with grubby hands to liked to pet Dianne and Mabel and Shelby but never stayed long, and neither did their single mothers who, for some reason, took a quick liking to John's blond hair and light eyes.

Time passed and John felt more secure in his decisions with every sticky new birth. Maintaining a steady income off exporting wool and milk, John lived peacefully up until just last year, when the old farmer passed away. John had gone so long without visiting him at his little shop that he was two or three months late on the notice. The farmer's granddaughter had been pulling jars of peaches off the shelves when John had arrived.

"Hello?" he'd said. 

"Sorry, we're not selling any produce right now," said the freckled girl, long red pigtails sweeping over her shoulders as she moved her thin arms high over her head for the next jar.

John cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very awkward. He wasn't as good with kids as he was with sheep. "No, I'm not looking to buy… I'm looking for William?"

"Oh." The girl stopped. She was very still before turning towards John and wiping the dust on her jeans. "You're John?"

"Yes..."

"Grandpa told us about you. He said you were one of those good-looking guys. Sort of oversold you a bit, if you wanna know the truth."

John swallowed and dug his hands into his pockets, "Yeah, thanks for that. Is he around?"

The girl looked to John like she was maybe eleven, but he really couldn't tell. She did seem smart, though, with William's same kind eyes and calm hands. She opened her mouth to say something but closed it again as if she knew she'd be rude. She tried again, "He died a few months ago."

John's heart sank. He was used to friends dying on him, in more brutal ways than this, right in front of his eyes, but this was different. The one person who had helped him rebuild his life, and he had to hear the news secondhand from a brassy kid. "I'm… I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah," said the granddaughter as she moved to the counter. "It wasn't bad or anything. Mom says it was in his sleep. I'm not too sad." A moment of silence passed before she pointed a dusty finger to John's knapsack. "What's in there?"

"Some of my sheep's milk. I liked to bring him some to let him know the flock is fine. So I just thought - "

She cut him off, "Yeah, he said you were nice. Not that he talked about you all the time, just when we asked him how his day had been he said he was with some bloke name John. Teachin' him stuff."

"Right."

"I'm Jezebel by the way. You'd think you'd have known that or something. Maybe Grandpa woulda forced you to name a lamb after me."

"We weren't that close."

"But you're here, aren't ya?"

"…Look, just take the damn milk. My condolences to you and your family. I won't bother you again." John set the knapsack on the counter a bit too forcefully, already regretting his temper. He tried to play it off to himself that he was mad about leaving his flock in the barn, but he knew that wasn't it. 

Jezebel's eyes looked sad in the moment John saw them before he turned his back, but she called after him anyway, "Hey, I'm sorry. Grandpa really liked you, okay? When he mentioned you, he said you were the most honorable man he'd ever met. About the war and everything. And that you were a great shepherd and you didn't even know it, so you musta meant something more to him that just a helpless… Mmm, what's it called? …Veteran! Yeah, that. You were important to him, y'know?"

He was nearly out the door, but he found the strength to look back at the kid once more. "Thanks. …If you want more milk or something, I'll be around." And he left. 

That wasn't one of his favorite memories, John admitted to himself in his half-asleep state. He wrinkled his nose at it, which caused his face to tingle and awaken. It wasn't that John was a bad man, he decided, but sometimes he wasn't good at coping. He was a bit rude to Jezebel, but he'd called on her and her family once since, so he didn't feel too bad about it.

John thought more of the peaches and the milk and his pregnant ewes as the warm numbness of sleep began to succumb him. He felt fuzzy and comfortable, but he couldn't deny the prickle of tears behind his eyelids in remembering that he'd sworn to name the next young ram born after Will.

* * *

The morning sun glowed warmly as John tried to focus through a lace of blond lashes. The simplicity of his bedroom was familiar and still around him, and it took him a moment to appreciate the beauty of it. He was comfortable and snug in bed, but when he shifted his position, a dull ache shot through his shoulders. He groaned, _Must've slept on it wrong again._ He sat up and rolled his joints, raking his fingers through his shaggy hair. He didn't really like to go into the city too often, even for haircuts, so he let it grow out until he was fed up and took some rusty shears to it. Nearly snipped off his ear once, but it was better than dealing with people.

No, that wasn't true, John admitted as he shuffled around his room looking for his robe. His room, and moreover, his home, weren't really the Buckingham Palace in cleanliness, so finding things once he'd tossed them aside was a bit of a struggle. As he moseyed into the white and black tiled bathroom, he countered his earlier statement. He couldn't deal with _people_ , necessarily, but he could deal with _a person_ if he had to. 

During the war, he had a few high energy shags in his quarters and one desperate near-romance, but his social skills lacked perfection and he couldn't keep people interested for long. When he returned, the bars and clubs he frequented left little to be desired, but sloppy snogs in bathrooms that tasted like tequila were seemingly good enough. Now, he was alone again, and on the few occasions that he did get a passerby's number, he never called them. 

That being said, after years of solitude and watching sheep mate and bear lambs had gotten John thinking about a relationship - a real one. A monogamous one with commitment and a mixture of arguing about bath towels and having sleepy sex under the stars. Thinking of this, John audibly sighed as he scrubbed himself down in the shower, the warm water trickling down over his muscles and into certain crevices that he suddenly was very aware of. Biting his lips as he skittered an eager hand down his front, he shamelessly indulged in a morning wank as he thought in detail of this perfect fantasy relationship.

As much as he loved women, he never really _loved_ women. They were beautiful and intelligent and striking and soft, but his heart only ever seemed to ache for other schoolboys and men. Crushes on classmates were easily repressed, even the ones that led to very blushy hand-holding and a cheeky handjob after the school dance. Uni came along, and he had one boyfriend who was clingy and eventually dangerously jealous. 

John took a moment to come with a shudder before he rinsed off and washed his hair. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he'd always been extremely (what his health teachers called it) sexually active. He was careful every time, even when it was a strange one night stand, but at this point he really couldn't count how many people he'd been with. However, he could count the men he'd "fallen in love with" on one hand…

Satisfied and less sleepy now, John added a bit of conditioning product in his hair and let the suds drip down and into the scruff along his jaw. He didn't feel like shaving particularly often, and the less he did, the more he looked like the classic idea of a shepherd: disheveled hair and a becoming beard. All he was missing was the knitted robes and staff.

John stepped out of the shower now and dried himself, tucking the white towel around his thick hips. He admired himself in the steamy mirror, his worn eyes and prominent nose, his ears that stuck out and the dark blond mess of hair on his head, and his broad, tight shoulders and bullet wound. Sighing, he streaked a hand through the steam and moved to get dressed.

Unsure of what day of the week it was, John dried his strong legs and torso and pulled on briefs and jeans, along with a white undershirt and a red lumberjack's flannel. Leaving his feet bare as he always did, John rubbed a towel through his hair and scruff one last time before wandering downstairs to check the field and make breakfast. He worked quickly in the kitchen to cook eggs, toast, and bacon as he periodically checked the horizon. He didn't take his sheep out to graze until he'd fed himself, but by the position of the sun in the sky, he knew the sheep were antsy to seek fresh grass and their favorite - forbs.

He sat alone at the table and ate, steam rising off his food in swirls. He knew being lonesome and being alone were different, but as of late they'd meshed into one, and he ached for human companionship more than ever. Someone he could eat with, talk at, tell stories to. Someone who wouldn't know of his dangerous and somewhat sad past, but who would listen intently should John choose to tell them. 

After a few minutes, John was still thinking of this fantasy person, but his stomach was full and his tongue was just slightly tender from the hot bacon. He rose from the table and washed his dishes, too lazy to put them away properly. He rung his hands and wiped them on his jeans as he looked out the window. _It's not that this is boring,_ John thought to himself, _it's just boring._

Then something caught John's eye in the corner of his window. A sleek black car, its tinted windows and smooth hood glinting the sun, had pulled up and parked just in the wrong spot. Usually, when people stopped by to meet the sheep, they nervously turned into a dusty clearing out of the way of the road. This arsehole stopped right on the side of it, though, between the flow of traffic and the sloping hill leading up to the meadow. 

 _Sodding tourists,_ John thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is such trash, okay, like he literally gives up talking to family and friends to sleep with single tourist moms and wank alone in his huge house. 
> 
> Still love him, tho...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He followed his dad's ideas about becoming a lawyer and did all that Mycroft told him to do.

Sifting through the city and its usual idiot drivers, the man in the sleek black car cursed under his breath when he pulled behind a rather tedious line of traffic just outside of city limits. In all honesty, this wasn't how he'd planned to spend the weekend. He'd rather be at home, reading about interesting historical failures. He'd actually asked his boss if he could take a holiday just the week before, considering he'd been working as hard, if not harder, than any of his coworkers and had little to show for it.

"No, I have a project for you," the older man said as they spoke in his ridiculously large office. As part of the British government and head of their law firm, the man's boss (and brother) really had every say in the matter. Not that that was fair, mind you.

The young lawyer swiped his large hands over the steering wheel and glanced out his window as he remembered the conversation. Traffic didn't seem to be moving, so he let his mind wander back to earlier that week.

"Oh, for God's sakes…" he'd responded.

"You've heard about our plan to expand the city and add another cineplex mall complex, haven't you?"

"Yes…?"

"Well, where we want to expand to, after spreading along the road, is a few miles south. A little patch of land… I'm told there's nobody there, but…"

"You want me to check it out, don't you?"

"Always the smart one, aren't you? Yes, let any creature, should it have the ability to comprehend, know that we're planning on building on that land in the next months and that they should evacuate immediately."

He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, swiping at it mindlessly. "Not my division." 

Sharp nose guiding him and round face tilting down into a sneer, Mycroft Holmes leaned forward in his desk and looked at his brother menacingly. "It will be if you want to keep your job, Sherlock."

"Don't threaten me, Mycroft. The firm is as much mine as it is yours."

"You _work for me._ "

At this point, a loud honk pulled Sherlock out of his memory and caused him to remember that Mycroft had won the argument and that he was currently on his way to the building site. He drove ahead quickly so as not to anger the person behind him further. 

Sherlock drove through the city for a few minutes before the buildings thinned and only a long stretch of road lay ahead of him. He glanced behind him before slowing the car down, hoping to make the drive last as long as possible. He did _not_ want to scope out a dirty old field only to return with information that his brother probably already knew. He furrowed his brows and turned on the radio. He returned back to his thoughts as the mediocre rock music filled the car.

"The firm is called 'Holmes & Holmes,' Myc."

Something resembling memory flickered across Mycroft's face at the use of his old nickname. Then, staid and cold, "Named after the partnership of old dad and I; I don't see your point."

Sherlock flared his nostrils, "My point is that I think I deserve more credit. I'm smarter than Donovan and Sally and Lestrade combined, and yet I only get a fraction of their cases. Why is that?"

Mycroft stood up as if the conversation bored him, "You know the answer to that, Sherlock. I'm having lunch now. Be ready to leave at the end of the week, and don't get caught up in it. It's the closest you'll get to a holiday." 

Shouting after his older brother as he left Sherlock alone in the office, Sherlock made a petty comment about his failed diet and dropped his head into his hands. He knew exactly why he didn't get enough cases. Mycroft, who used to look out for Sherlock like any older, overprotective brother should, now refused to promote him and his frankly incredible intelligence because he'd gotten too emotionally involved in cases before. 

A woman had hired him to defend her from her boyfriend who had killed their dog, and Sherlock had gotten halfway through his questions before faltering. He could feel his brother watching him intently from the back of the courtroom, which only made things worse. Something broke in him that his incredible observation skills couldn't fix, and his questions became more biased and complicated the more he tried to backstep, the witnesses doing little to help. The case ended, and even though the woman's boyfriend did not go unpunished after the verdict was assigned, Mycroft berated Sherlock for months on how he'd gotten sloppy. 

What was worse was that everyone else in the firm looked to him for cold and heartless arguments, with his quick tongue and flawless deductions. At every opportunity he got, he judged his coworkers on what they were wearing or what they'd done the night before, quizzing them on how it'd hold up in court. They laughed off the seriousness of it, their responses always some form of, "Well, I'm sure my lawyer wouldn't be able to tell if I cheated on my wife because of the scone I ate this morning. That's just you, Sherlock." 

He'd smirk as best he could, but he knew that wasn't true. Mycroft was better than him at deductions, and his dad was the best on cases, so he really had nothing to be proud of. Despite this, he still preened under the attention and pretended he was the best of all of them. So, of course, when word got out that he fumbled during court, he felt more insecure than ever.

Sherlock Holmes had always been a bit insecure, anyway. He followed his dad's ideas about becoming a lawyer and did all that Mycroft told him to do. Late at night, when nobody could tell him to go back to law school and get it right this time, he wondered what it'd have been like if things were different. If he'd taken all his ridiculous intelligence and had channeled it into becoming an astronaut, or a mathematician, or an actor, or a detective. Maybe he'd have been much better off working a job that made him happy with someone to come home to, rather than staying late at the office preparing for cases that never came and going home to an empty flat and cooking a microwavable dinner.

Driving steadily down the road now, Sherlock nearly let his eyes glaze over as he went deeper into the past, radio commercials static, unrecognizable background noise. 

He'd always been smart, that was a given. The other kids in primary school didn't want to play with him, and he'd always said the wrong thing. At the end of the day, however, it didn't matter because his mother loved him and so did his dog. He got cuddles from both after being read a bedtime story, and he usually fell asleep thinking about pirates or mermaids. 

But he got older and the stories had to stop. His dog had died along with his childlike innocence, and his mother couldn't protect him from the expectations of his father and Mycroft, who had drifted away as well. He was left alone to study and study more, maybe talking to one or two kids the whole school year, but never really becoming friends with them. Years passed like this, and Sherlock was lonesome all throughout the roughest patches of adolescence, crushing on boys he would never talk to and warding off bullies and comments by becoming the coldest top student there ever was.

During law school, which had been a no-questions-asked type of arrangement, Sherlock sought comfort in learning everything he could that wasn't law. The rules and regulations of court were easy enough, but science and art and dance really piqued his fancy. He spent time in his dorm room studying violin or different types of plants, tea in one hand, pencil in the other. He knew this collection of information wouldn't get him anywhere, but he prized it just the same. 

On one occasion, he'd been out in the courtyard studying Ancient Greek when a handsome student asked if he would tutor him. This was new and refreshing, and over the months he found himself more and more attracted to the boy. A year younger than him, Victor Trevor arrived every Tuesday in the library with a bright smile against his dark face, and every time it'd spark Sherlock's heart just a bit fiercer. He would have asked him out, too, if he hadn't been so ridiculously insecure and sure that Victor wasn't interested in him. His suspicions were confirmed one day when they were talking about a post-finals party.

"Hey!" Victor had said, white button shirt rolled up his forearms, messy black hair hiding a pencil stuck behind his ear. He licked his lips and sat beside Sherlock, who was flipping mindlessly through a book about Mesopotamian culture. "What're we learning today, teach?"

"Nothing, really, I've taught you everything you wanted to learn." _Well, tried to teach,_ he added mentally.

Victor pulled off his thick-rimmed glasses and wiped them with the hem of his shirt, a long stretch of taut brown skin peeking at Sherlock from above his trousers. Sherlock tried not to blush. "Oh yeah, huh? Whatever, I'm here now. Teach me something."

Sherlock pushed the sleeves of his sweater up and popped his knuckles, "Well, the Mesopotamian age is often considered to be the most influential culture in regards to both agricultural and functional technology in early history, complete with - "

"You going to Sebastian's party tonight?" Victor interrupted.

"Of course not." _I'm going to stay in and deduce the outcome of bad soap operas._

The handsome, quite distracting, young man wrinkled his nose. His glasses shifted a bit. "I knew you'd say that."

 _He's so absolutely gorgeous…_ "Apologies for being predictable."

"Arsehole. But no, listen, you need a break. You gotta let loose at some point. If you go, you don't even have to drink or anything, just maybe smoke some weed…"

Sherlock glanced around for the stern librarian. "Shh!"

"Oh, fuck if she hears. You should come, it's the end of finals and everyone's going."

"I'm not everyone."

"Exactly! That's why you should go. Come on, Holmes." Victor pleaded with his eyes, but the motion traveled down into his strong arms and led his hand to rest on top of Sherlock's. There was a tense moment and Sherlock couldn't help but dart his gaze down to the slender brown fingers on top of his own pale knuckles. Bringing his light eyes back up to Victor's golden, Sherlock wondered if then was the time to say something. He parted his lips but Victor pulled his hand away, "Bring a date or something. It could be fun, you don't know."

Sherlock let out a silent breath of relief, but his heart still fluttered. "Impossible."

"Don't say that, you're not so bad. Maybe I could get one of Grace's friends…"

"Is that who you're going with?" Immediately Sherlock regretted saying that. Victor seemed to register what he'd meant, considering his voice was low and snappy, and he swiveled his body back around. 

"Yeah… We've been going together for a couple weeks."

"Oh. Well. That's nice."

Victor almost looked like he wanted to say, _I should have told you_ or even more bold, _I'm sorry_ , considering how much he'd flirted with Sherlock during their tutoring sessions… It was a wonder how he even learned anything. Instead, Victor just pulled the pencil from his ear. "Yeah. It is." He then cleared his throat, "Anyway, if you want to go, it's tonight from ten 'til dawn and it's just off campus, at Sebastian's parent's house."

"Okay." Another tense silence passed, which was unusual considering both Victor and Sherlock could talk for hours about absolutely nothing. Then, "I don't think you need any more help on languages and cultures, considering you've already passed the final. I'm… going to go study somewhere else. Best of luck with Grace. I'll see you around." Sherlock fumbled to get up, his thigh scraping the side of his chair as he moved past with his books. He hated it, he hated leaving Victor, and he hated letting on that he was upset about his girlfriend, but he just couldn't be around him at the moment. He was so bad at relationships, even friendships, and this was the one that he thought he understood…

The wretched feeling in his gut burned so fiercely at the memory that Sherlock had to stop thinking about it and focus on the present drive. A few fields and valleys lined the long road, even as short of a drive from the city as it was. Sherlock wondered if he'd passed it as he thought about Victor, so he did a double take as to where he was in relation to the city. He seemed to be alright, considering he had been driving ridiculously slow. 

 _It should be just up here…_ Sherlock thought as pulled the sun visor down. Once the glare faded he spotted a missing piece of hill in the distance, which he assumed was the field. He drove even slower, hoping the time of morning would ward off the cars that would've passed him. 

He thought of Mycroft and the firm and how he'd really lost touch with what made him happy after Victor. Nothing interesting happened to him after that, and a conscious part of him blamed himself for it. He could've just gone to the party and hoped to meet another bloke, or he could've waited out the fragile relationship between Grace and Victor. It happened to fall apart four months later, anyway. 

Sherlock shook the thought from his head as he tried to focus back on the job at hand. Looking closer now, he saw that the house was somewhat grand with a rectangle structure beside it. Sherlock knit his brow as he craned to see inside, but it was useless. He pulled up on the side of the road and stopped the car, taking a good minute or so to stay inside and think some more. 

After he completed this project, he would go back to work and try and convince Mycroft to let him take an actual holiday. He'd then maybe use that time to find a real boyfriend, or even a quick shag. He hadn't had one in so long, and the last time he did, it was with a rather raunchy guy at a club. The handsy bloke wasn't particularly unattractive, but he was no Victor Trevor, either. Sherlock called on him a few more times after that, but the man got bored and left him alone. Mycroft must've deduced that, anyway, because he gave him a lecture about "using his leisure time properly" the weeks after.

As if he was one to talk! The whole firm knew he was being shagged weekly by Greg Lestrade! Sherlock grimaced, no, better not to think about that. He could barely think of himself with anyone, let alone his brother. 

Yes, Sherlock wasn't a very salacious person. After his first time with a nice (rather simple) guy in university, much later on than Victor, Sherlock had sort of lost touch with sex. 

He still loved the thought of it, of course, and he couldn't help but grind into his sheets thinking about fit, dominant military men, but he lacked both the motivation and the time to search for cock in reality. So he sadly wanked in the shower and was still contemplating buying a dildo or not. 

Sherlock glanced in the rearview mirror, checking his startling teal eyes and dark, wild curls. He wasn't ugly, and he often wasn't stupid, but his sharp honesty and emotional damage was pretty hard to sort through. And God, what a shame, because Sherlock really had been looking forward to finding someone. He was only thirty, quite fit, and had racked up a bit of money from the firm. He should have been an absolute _catch_. 

Of course, Mycroft had teased him to the pits of hell and back about the women and men who _did_ fancy him, outside of the firm and within, so finding someone that Mycroft didn't know would be a bit difficult.

Women did like him, and he knew it. They could see past his cold persona and seemed to find him "dark and handsome." He heard some of them giggling about him when the firm had gotten new interns, and as strange as it was to walk away and hear things besides "What a freak" and "He always looks angry," it was also flattering. It fed his fake ego, but he had to assure himself that he wouldn't toy with any of their emotions. He used to do that a lot, especially when he was in law school. Girls would ask him to help them with their law presentations, and he'd only be nice to them long enough to make sure his presentation was better than theirs. Did that make him human trash? Maybe. Did it keep him from forming romantic or sexual relationships with these women? Certainly not, he had no plan to from the start. 

Yes, he'd always fancied men. As a teenager he'd hide himself away in his room with a magazine and gaze at them, letting his head make up scenarios where he'd meet one at the grocery store or whatever perfect job he'd scored. He'd sometimes even write stories about two boys meeting at school and falling in love because they both liked pirates and dogs. Once the stories stopped, desperate sexual stimulation and frequent orgasms took place. That held him off for a while, but he couldn't deny that he wanted real life experience.

Unfortunately, he'd always deduced everyone he'd met, so he could right off tell which men were straight and which weren't even worth figuring out. He'd study the boys at school who were in the closet and the men in the firm who were definitely too forward with their women coworkers. He knew all of it from the amount of product in their hair or the way they looked at him on the street. Sometimes it was so easy that he had to double check. 

However with Victor, he was never sure. The signs Victor gave him, such as wide pupils and short laughter followed by inability to maintain eye contact always led him to believe he purposely flirted with him, if anything. Furthermore, of all the hints and innuendos Sherlock made at him during their time, he never directly shot down. At one point, Sherlock recalled, he even made "student and teacher taboo relationship" joke, at which Victor just laughed nervously and said, "Classic!" Sherlock didn't know what that meant. Classic Sherlock to make an obvious joke, or was it a classic cliché? He couldn't tell with these things. He knew what time Victor had gone to bed based on the state of his hair, and Sherlock could tell when he hadn't eaten, but the emotional logic it took to sift through his words was always so difficult. Maybe that's why it never worked with anyone. It was all too much of a hassle.

Sinking back into his seat for a moment, Sherlock sighed. He just wanted something easy. Not someone easy, but someone who made the complicated things… not. He wanted something with someone who would trace their fingers over the muscles in his back and cook for him; someone who could make his heart flip and inspire him to write poetry again which, in all honesty, was only ever about Victor. Victor and his crooked smile and golden eyes.

He caught himself, _No use to dwell on it, Sherlock. No use to feel bad about how lonely you are, how single and underappreciated you are. No use at all._  

With one final sigh and a small groan, Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, already out of place against the green fields. His suit and beautiful car made him feel too modern for this place, and after locking the car with a click of his automatic keys, he hiked his way up the side of the meadow. The sun beat hot against his face, and the house and its other structure seemed pleasant against the lush, thick grass. A warm breeze carried the smell of hay and bacon across the vast horizon and rustled Sherlock's tender curls. He noted the strength of the house as he walked across the large meadow, surprised at its size the closer he got. The house was a mix of browns and tans, with a simple fir structure and pretty mahogany rim. The building beside it, which looked to Sherlock like a barn, matched the same off-white base, its roof a deeper shade with light brown doors. Sherlock smoothed down his suit jacket as a figure moved inside the house, and suddenly Sherlock was quite aware of his nervousness.

Ideas and instances flooded into Sherlock's mind as he stepped up and onto the porch. What if it was an old lady with cows and horses? How could he tell her that she needed to move? Or what if it was a family with too many children, all of which had their own goat? How was he going to breach the subject? What if the person refused to move? His heart battered against his ribs as he reached one wary hand to knock on the door.

After four solid knocks, Sherlock stepped back and wiped his hands on his trousers. He swallowed and pursed his lips. The person inside the house shuffled closer to the door and Sherlock was legitimately concerned about how nervous he was.

The door opened a second after Sherlock had expected it to, and the jittery feeling in his stomach turned into a sharp drop as he made eye contact with the man of the house.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock would make a great lawyer, and we all know it. 
> 
> Also viclock pain :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could they not know that he was there?

The shepherd shuffled towards the door, irritated. He'd refused to watch whoever came out of the pretentious car by busying himself with the dishes, never once glancing at the field, but when those four damned knocks sounded, he knew he'd have to greet them. John reached out a hand gruffly and pulled the door open just a second later than he probably should have. Standing stiffly on the porch, bathed in a golden morning light, was the most beautiful man John had ever seen. 

John's face heated as his stomach dropped, his heart fluttering and his cock twitching. The man was regal and sharp, standing before him in a suit that fit well on his tall, lean body. The man had had his face turned when John had opened the door, revealing a stunning profile and strong jawline. His large hands were clasped at his stomach and his legs seemed to go on for miles. Meeting the stranger's eyes now, John was speechless at his almost other-worldly beauty. His high, defined cheekbones and prominent nose were unimpressive in comparison to the man's plump, pink cupid's bow lips and startling, pale eyes. His slender, angular face was framed by rich, dark curls that seemed too wild for someone with such a stilted glare.

Taking another second to stare, John watched as the man seemed a bit taken back himself, opening his pretty lips in a silent gasp. The man seemed to compose himself much quicker, however, and he regarded John in a voice so deep that John could feel it in his core.

"Hello," the man said.

Surprisingly, John found the ability to form cohesive sentences and responded. "How can I help you?"

Popping a thick brow at John's formality, the well-dressed man dipped his head and sucked in his bottom lip. "I represent the Holmes & Holmes law firm. I was sent to tell you that you must evacuate the property in less than a month or you will be forced."

Instantly John's immediate attraction turned from arousal to confused rage. "What!?"

"I said you - "

"I have to leave?"

"Sir, I was sent - "

"This is my home."

"You have a month - "

"Is this a joke?"

The man then pursed his lips and took a deep breath, raising his head arrogantly. "We are expanding the city and building on this land. This is a notice."

John gripped the edge of his door, "You want to build here? There's already a whole goddamn city! What else could you need?"

"That's… somewhat confidential."

"Confidential my arse," John spat, "You want to build on _my_ property, then you tell me what's going on."

A tense moment passed between them then, the tall, handsome man unclasping his hands and wiping them on his trousers as John shifted in the doorway. Finally, "Sir, can we talk about this inside?"

John sighed, admitting defeat. He couldn't stand out in the doorway and argue with this guy all morning, and as much as the situation didn't call for it, John wouldn't mind in the slightest if the handsome suit had to spend the night. He stepped aside and motioned his hand in. "Fine."

"Thank you," that low, undeniably sexy voice grumbled as it brushed past John's chest.

Sneaking a look at the man's bum as he walked ahead of him and into the house, John shut the door and told him to take a seat at the kitchen table. The man did so without looking back at John, and he slid into the small chair gracefully, smoothing his elegant fingers over the table surface.

"So," John ventured as he joined him, suddenly extremely aware of his appearance and presentation. "Is your name confidential, too?"

"No."

John found himself taking a moment to suppress a smile at that. The man was so regal and poised and handsome - John wondered how it'd look to have him writhing on top of him with mussed curls and a flushed face. _No, not the time for that, John. This is business. Sexy, charming business, but business nonetheless._ "Alright then, what is your name?"

The man flicked his eyes around the room. It was almost as if they changed shades with every piece of furniture they landed on. Without meeting John's heated glare, he said, "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"So you own the firm, then?"

Again, "No." Sherlock Holmes seemed hesitant to explain further, but John waited in silence anyway, expectant. "My brother," he continued, sighing and studying John's face, "My brother and father. I'm of little importance to the firm."

"But you were 'sent' here."

"Yes."

"Right. Now tell me, Mr. Holmes, what's this about building on my land?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and John didn't try to hide how he watched the flex of Sherlock's neck and jaw as he spoke. "There have been arrangements made from powers that you cannot fight."

"What the hell is this, some fairytale? Stop with the weird dialect and give it to me straight." _Well, I mean, not_ straight _…_ John thought, his stern face hiding his impure thoughts. He was angry and confused, of course, but God was he interested. 

"For monetary and economic gain, the city manager, along with my brother, have decided that these hills and meadows along the roads outside of city limits are technically useless space. They are planning to build more city ground for booming businesses to expand, as well as another library and bank. Your plot of land, here," the man's startling eyes darted towards the window above the sink, "Is the perfect area for an extended mall and car park."

"I understand that, but then what about me? Do they not know that I'm here? That I have a flock?"

Something unexpectedly humanlike flashed across the businessman's face. "They are not aware of that, and if they were, my brother did not tell me."

John tried to remain level-headed, but it was difficult. How could they not know that he was there? For six years, his fields and flock had been treasured by tourists and locals alike. "Does this change anything, now that _you_ know I'm here?"

"I'm sorry, it doesn't."

 _Well, you don't look sorry._ "So I'm supposed to up and move, just like that?"

"Sir, I told you - "

"John. It's John. John Watson. I'm a shepherd on this land and I've raised a wonderful flock in a barn that I built. I contribute to the market by selling fleece and milk, and I've done so for six years. How am I not protected under some… organic produce rights?" John hoped that a bit of background would appeal to Sherlock's emotions, but so far it seemed he had none. 

The lawyer leaned forward and stared at John fiercely. If John hadn't been sloppy in rage, he would've sworn the man's gaze dropped from John's eyes to his lips. He wasn't sure, though. "I really am sorry, Mr. Watson. I was only told to inform anybody here of the situation. I did not know of you or your sheep. I have no control over this. If I could change it, I would." Sherlock began to stand up, the chair scraping as he moved away from the table. 

"So why can't you? Change it, I mean."

"I don't have that kind of power."

"You don't? What, you're the pushover son of the company, is that it? You just do what your brother tells you?"

Sherlock seemed a bit riled up at that, and he went slightly pink in the face. He raised his voice. It was erotic. "I don't appreciate that, sir. I can't change my brother's wishes, even if I'm not on his side. My job is at stake."

John stood as well, albeit, stumbling a bit. He wasn't as tall as Sherlock in the least, but he had home court advantage, so he was ready to pull the 'Get out of my house' card if he had to. He clenched his fists and stared the man down, heat of anger and frisson bubbling in his stomach. "Your job is at stake? My whole world is at stake. I built a new life here. I have bloody sheep to care for!"

The other man pressed on, forceful. "You're a poor shepherd if you can't herd your flock to greener pastures."

"They're not like that, they want to stay here!"

"What, have you asked them!?"

They were both near screaming now. John was hot in the face (as well as other places), and he dug his nails into his palm as he shouted, "Don't mock me! This is my home and I'm not letting some snotty businessmen take it from me. Please sir, if you could leave now, I'd sure appreciate it."

"Fine! But don't think I won't be back tomorrow!

"Great! Love to have you! Still not going to change my mind, though!"

"Obviously!" And with that, Sherlock swept his invisible coattails and huffed towards the door, leaving John pissed off and horny. Once he reached the door, he stopped and turned, glassy eyes more apologetic than angry. "Just… move your bloody sheep!" he shouted, then left. 

The slammed door echoed in house, lonely silence settling in immediately. John rushed to the kitchen window and watched the man stalk off. Sherlock was a skinny black piano key against the blue, yellow, and green pastels of the landscape. John snarled and slammed a fist on the counter. He curled forward and let a surge of emotion course through him.

He'd asked for something interesting, nay, he'd pleaded for it. He wanted someone to come into his life, someone to rouse him and make his simple life dangerous again. But God, did it have to be this? Did it have to be this inconsiderate prick, this fucking gorgeous piece of arse with bad news?

John peeked at the window again just in time to see the sleek back car drive off. He slipped down from the counter and dropped to his knees, his damp forehead resting against the low cupboard. 

"Fuck," he breathed. Gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles, John panted a bit, eyes closed. His head drooped, and he finally looked towards the tightness at his pelvis. He groaned. _Another one? Christ._ He breathed some more before swiveling around to sit with his back against the counter. He sneaked a hand towards his crotch and prepared for his second wank that day, infuriating lawyers drifting in and out of his head.

* * *

Twenty minutes after leaving the shepherd's meadow, Sherlock was driving around the city pointlessly. It was still early morning, but he didn't want to go back to the office. He hadn't completed his duty, anyway.

But for God's sakes, at what price would he complete it? 

Sherlock groaned under his breath as he passed by an inner city statue. Surprisingly, the city traffic wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, and he could drive around with slight ease. His mind was stuck on that blasted shepherd, though, and he thought about how handsome he was, even when he was red in the face and shouting at him. 

Sherlock dropped his head and wrinkled his nose. _God, he's so hot._

Since when did he describe people as "hot?" Furthermore, since when did he feel so riled up after just meeting a bloke? _Since Victor,_ his conscious answered. _You're not helping,_ another part of him said.

He pulled his head up just in time to see someone flipping him off out the window. He hadn't been watching the road and had cut the guy off. Apparently disappearing into his head while driving wasn't the smartest thing to do, despite the inevitable dwelling on John.

John, John, John. He was so different, so unlike anything Sherlock had expected. With his pretty eyes and angry smile, his cinnamon scruff and shaggy blond hair, John was a wild card. He was so familiar and yet wonderfully new, something fresh to deduce. What's more is that Sherlock was already considering him as a life changer.

The lawyer thought about the shepherd some more as he drove to his flat. He then found himself lounging about in it after an hour of thought, draped like lace on every piece of furniture. His sharp mind had drifted in and out of logic and fantasy during that time, figuring that John must've unlearned some basic social skills in his time isolated with his sheep. His short fuse had lit so easily with Sherlock's bad news, and the detective lolled his curly head towards the nearest window as he recounted, again, their quick but passionate feud. John had defended himself and his sheep, saying that he'd "built" himself a new life. 

What did that mean? Sherlock could deduce that he had been living there for a few years, considering his out-of-style clothing and the fact that his hair hadn't been cut properly, by a barber, in months. It wasn't that John was a barbarian who sneaked off into his upstairs to feast on his sheep, but spending years among rams and ewes could make a man less formal than if he'd spent them among defendants and plaintiffs. Either way, Sherlock decided, John was fantastically interesting and frankly, he couldn't contain his excitement at going back the next day. 

He'd said he wouldn't, hadn't he? He didn't remember, really. He raised his hands in the air and rolled his wrists, watching the sharp bones moving under his pale skin. He dropped them back to his face, the smooth satin of his blue dress robe folding under his forearms. 

No, he didn't remember anything but John. It hadn't been but a few hours ago, and yet the morning had changed everything. Sherlock now had nothing to focus on but meeting with John and hopefully working out a compromise in which he could remain seeing him. 

What would that be? Promising to stall the construction just long enough to seduce him?

Sherlock laughed aloud, the sound falling flat in the empty room. _Right, seduce him. With my incredible experience and promise that I'm fantastic in bed. Come in through the window like "I'm here to make you plead guilty. Guilty of wanting this arse."_ Sherlock covered his face with his hands and said aloud, "Oh, for God's sake."

 _Right, so seduction is out. Friends then? I could be friends with him? No, that wouldn't work. He hates me. He thinks I'm teamed up with the firm, that I'm out to get him. Unless…_ The dramatic lawyer, who was now the opposite of how he presented himself at work, flipped his legs up and over the top of the couch. He almost had a plan forming, but he'd need to push his overwhelming sense of sentiment out of the way to reach it. He continued to think to himself, slightly muttering along, _Unless I can figure out a compromise and tell him that I'm on his side. Tell him that I want him to remain where he is, that I want him to keep his flock… If I show up tomorrow, bearing a gift and apologies… He might want to be friends. It's a better bet than seducing him, anyway, considering I'm not entirely sure if he's straight or not. He probably is. Which is… unfortunate… But I'd like to have him as a friend anyway._

He thought through every problem and corner as if his entire world relied on making nice with a man he'd just met. A man who already had made his dull life interesting, had given him something to wonder, something else to figure out besides who was shagging who at the firm. The last few hours, which was a breeze to spend lost in thought, considering how long he'd lay around thinking about how to win a case, had shaped his entire life. It was like everything that he'd been taught, everything that he'd struggled to accept and deal with, all the orders that Mycroft demanded from him, the memories of Victor and everyone else at uni, all of it… It all was better now that he'd met John. 

It was a ridiculous, stupid, impulsive, and extremely naïve way to feel, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. He'd been so cold for so long, living day to day like he was waiting for something to happen, just going through the motions… And now it was here. This something, this new thing, that could ultimately be his success or his demise, was waiting, just the next morning, to be discovered once again.

Sherlock Holmes spent the rest of his day smiling to himself like an idiot, dangling his feet and planning out the next encounter until night fell.

* * *

It was night now, and John's mind was racing as he sat stiffly on the bed. Just that morning, he'd met the most interesting man of his life, besides William. While John's mind put them on par as the two men who had affected him most since the end of the war, Sherlock was rude where William was kind, complicated where the old farmer was simple. Outside of the good mates he'd made in the war, these two men were probably the most influential he'd come across in his adult life.

John suddenly scowled. Why was he lumping so many different people into categories? He'd met so many good men in his life, some of which he unfortunately knew for a short time before they were taken by the cold hands of death, and now he was throwing them into groups in his head. And how could he even put Sherlock the lawyer, that blasted prick, on the same level as some of the most honorable men in the service? How could someone he'd just met that morning be permanently stuck in his mind as if he were some fantastic imprint, surely to be around long after he'd forgotten about John?

He shook his head, the low light from the bathroom casting a shadow on his window. He couldn't put Sherlock on that level. Not yet. He hadn't even assessed if he was a good man or not.

 _But surely he must be… if he really was powerless against his brother…_ Now John was putting Sherlock's brother, a man he'd never met, into a separate category. He sighed, _No more of this,_ he decided, _Just think._

John moved to lay on his back, his thin t-shirt soft against his skin as he reached his arms under his head. He stared at the broken wooden fan above him and thought about Sherlock. Well, he'd been doing that all day, really, but he thought some more.

Alright, so he didn't know if Sherlock was a good man or not, so what? John didn't consider himself a good man. When he was around people more often, he was so rude that all his friends left, and he never really put that much effort into making new ones. He'd let the atrocities of war harden him up to the point of craving danger, but he denied himself that fucked happiness for a bit, which surely must not be healthy. That didn't keep him from making a new life, since he found a new happiness. Maybe Sherlock could, too. Maybe he'd secretly wanted to be a dentist and just got roped into the game of law because of his father. Anyway, John thought, he was still interesting. Interesting and gorgeous and seductive and _God, he's coming tomorrow!_

Shutting his eyes, John played out the most logical way the next day could go. Businesslike, even. 

Sherlock would arrive, without a set time of appearance, that prick, and John would invite him in as if he only had the most formal discussion in mind. They'd recap the circumstances, Sherlock's brother wanting John's land, and John would politely tell him to bugger off. After that, they'd argue some more and get so heated that all they could do to bring the pressure down was to clear the dining room table angrily and fuck on it. 

Wait, that wasn't right. Hold on. They'd talk like grown men and eventually come up with a compromise in which John would get to keep his land and Sherlock's brother could piss off for a bit. Then they'd spend the rest of Sherlock's allowed time talking and getting to know each other before inevitably falling in love and _then_ ravenously fucking on every surface of the house.

 _There,_ John grinned, _that makes more sense._ Not that the first option was out of the question, though.

John rolled to his side and curled in, his eyes watching the distant city skyline out his dark window. He hadn't felt this way about a man since university. Even when he'd fallen hard for one of his majors in Afghanistan, it sort of transitioned from good mates into sloppy, drunken fucking, with little time for unrequited pining.

The butterflies in John's stomach flared again, _Is this unrequited? Is Sherlock even queer? God, probably not. I'm making this all up. He's just a beautiful straight bloke with a girl back in the city. He's probably with her now, using those long fingers…_ John tried not to be aroused by the thought of Sherlock with a woman, or with anyone, even, but it was no use. He was in a perpetual state of near-arousal since Sherlock had angrily stormed off that morning, and the smallest instance of sexual energy surrounding him had John furrowing his brows and telling himself not to wank for a third time. He wasn't a teenager anymore, after all. 

And what right did he have to be jealous of a fantasy, anyway? He didn't even know the guy! 

...Didn't he?

Didn't he know that Sherlock was assigned to this case by his brother's orders, and that he really was sorry to inform John about it? Didn't he know that Sherlock had most definitely flushed at some point, and maybe looked at his lips in another? Or was he imagining that…?

 _Fuck if I know,_ John said to himself. He'd been thinking about the man for too damn long, even when he had herded his sheep outside and back in again.

John pursed his lips, hoping to let his mind rest. It was time to get some sleep, he decided. He was sure the gorgeous lawyer with plump lips and incredible eyes would be in his dreams, anyway, waiting for him there like some familiar newness that John felt when he'd had crushes as a boy. He huffed a laugh at himself as he crawled beneath the covers, leaving the bathroom light on due to sheer laziness. _I really am the worst,_ the shepherd thought.

* * *

What time was it? Two? Four? Sherlock couldn't tell. He just knew he felt itchy and hot and nervous, lying in bed and wishing he was already handsome, clean, and with John. He tugged his covers up tighter, the ticking of the clock loud and irritating in the stillness of his flat. He'd thought of everything, absolutely everything, that could possibly go wrong in the morning, including John being unwelcoming and telling him to sod off. He flipped onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow, groaning at how far he'd seem to come in his thoughts when it'd only been one day. 

Sherlock wiggled his arm from underneath him and accidentally brushed his thigh and crotch. Instantly, he remembered a way to get rid of that unwanted itchiness, and properly moved his hips up so there was room to sneak his hand down and into his pajamas. 

He thought about John shamelessly, albeit a bit nervously. It was a bit fucked to be thinking of a man he'd just met, but it'd seemed like ages since, and attraction at first sight wasn't as uncommon as it seemed, so Sherlock didn't let himself worry much. Instead, he thought about John wearing an open button-down, stretching in the morning sun and watching his sheep move by like a sea of white fluff. The sun would catch in his abdomen muscles and the dark blond hair at his pelvis as he stretched. 

Sherlock raised his brows and began palming himself through the fabric, thinking about John's rough builder's hands soft and warm against his skin, his lips skating over the bone in his shoulder. He thought about his eyes flicking up at him, heavily lidded and clouded by lust as his tongue swirled around him, his wonderful voice moaning against his skin…

Sherlock never did this. He absolutely _never_ did this. He'd usually let a full-fledged crush form before even the slightest hint of sexual urge would appear (in the seldom cases it did), but now John was warm and heavy on top of Sherlock and he was spreading his thighs farther apart and digging his hand under his trousers and gripping himself and whimpering and - 

It was all surreal. Sherlock wondered with the part of his mind that wasn't coiling in pleasure if John had actually happened. If he ought to feel bad about being eager to return, about biting his lip and grinding himself into his hand now while thinking about how rough John had been when they'd fought. 

Soon, fortunately, Sherlock didn't care if it was right or not. He was needy and grinding and thinking about how damn _big_ John must be, how great in bed he must be. 

Sherlock writhed against the sheets on his stomach, his left hand clutching at the fabric while his right was half-heartedly squeezing as he ground himself into it. He waited a bit longer, denying himself release, as he thought of John shuddering and coming inside of him before telling Sherlock he wanted to see him come. At that, Sherlock gave a similar jolt and gyrated his hips once more as he wet his palm and a bit of his bed, his lips trembling and aching to be suckled by the handsome shepherd. 

Relaxing against his hand with a contented sigh, Sherlock pulled his sticky hand up out of his pants and wiped it far away from himself. He'd have to wash the sheets soon anyway, so it didn't matter. He tucked himself back in and rolled away from the damp spot, cuddling into the new warmth, all signs of irritation and discomfort gone.

Of course, in its place was shame and regret at having just wanked thinking about, basically, a stranger. He'd have to see how that felt in the morning, if and when he decided to visit the shepherd again. 

Alas, he was tired and needed to sleep, so Sherlock let the post-orgasm comfort, as well as the happy butterflies in his stomach lull him in, smug and warm in bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fine line between anger and arousal, hm?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both were quiet and calm, the warm breeze absolutely perfect amongst the silence.

The clouds trailed slowly across the sky like John's fluffy white herd as he'd moved them into the pasture that morning. The grass around him tickled his wrists and made his arse damp as he sat far across the meadow, his back to the city. It was early afternoon, and the sun was golden and pretty in the sky. He'd been sitting for what seemed like far too long, but he'd been tense and angry lately, and he needed to just _not_ for a while. John Watson sat and sat and sat, ignoring his hunger and exhaustion and sore arms, reveling in the slow change of the world. He was far away from the main road and his house, and he felt isolated in freedom and peace. 

Of course, with peace came deep thought. While his body was still, John's mind was churning. He'd been wondering about the lawyer ever since their stubborn argument. John wasn't sure if he'd return today, like he said, or even if the whole encounter had even happened. Considering there hadn't been any sign of him yet, John tried to convince himself of the latter. Perhaps the handsome lawyer with the plump, pink lips never waltzed into his home and yelled at him. Perhaps John had made it all up to keep himself sane in the isolation. 

John sighed into the quiet. No matter if it happened or not, the thought alone was ridiculous. John told himself not to care so much after one chance meeting, especially for a man who's associates were determined to ruin his "patch of heaven." 

The shepherd turned his head to glance at his sheep. They were roaming freely off to the left a bit, little white-chocolate truffles on a jade platter. John smiled at them; he loved his sheep. He loved how simple they were and how he knew if he were to call them now, they'd come to him, bleating and chewing. His rams and ewes and growing lambs calmed him when he was worried for "no reason at all." Like now, for example. John was surging in and out of strange irritation and discomfort, an era of in-between in which he'd woken up many times during the night with the feeling that things just couldn't be what they once were. It was the same feeling he'd gotten after he'd returned from the war. Now, he had the same nervous panic bubbling inside him, rousing him as if his world was changing again. He tried to tell himself that his life wouldn't change just because of a handsome prat in a sharp suit. It was a laughable thought.

Laughable, but far too dire of a situation to ignore. Interest and arousal aside, John regarded Sherlock's appearance seriously because time was almost up, and John knew it. John was going to lose his meadow and flock at some point. It might not be now, quick and official as Sherlock's brother wanted, but John was sure it'd happen someday. 

Until then, however, he just sat and sat some more, listening to the wind and the snuffle of his flock from behind him. The sun beat down on his face, heating the remains of his scruffy beard. He had trimmed it just that morning, as well as his shaggy bangs, before he searched frantically for some clothes that weren't entirely unattractive. He'd found a striking blue button-up flannel and matched it with a tight grey undershirt. He pulled out his best dark grey jeans from a box under his bed and tried to scrape the dirt from under his fingernails. He was wearing his best leather boots now and lounged against the grass with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up his forearms and the halves unbuttoned, revealing the undershirt. John would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't spruced himself up for Sherlock. He'd also be lying if he said he didn't care if Sherlock noticed or not. He wanted to make an impression on the lawyer for business, obviously, but who would mind if it wasn't in hopes of seducing him as well?

Either way, John was now stiff and half-asleep in his position on the grass. Leaning his weight on his hands behind him, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, the shepherd concentrated on the distant mountains and the still blue of the sky around them. A sheep bleated from behind him, but John was lost to the serenity. So much so, in fact, that he must not have heard the tender footsteps of a nosy lawyer crossing the field. 

As he stepped around John and stood beside him, John finally caught the flash of black and the looming length of legs in the corners of his eyes. He felt his heart flutter in his chest but tried to keep his face from heating. He waited a moment before looking directly at Sherlock, holding the tension just a bit longer.

His curiosity got the best of him before long, and John finally turned his head and looked towards the standing man. Beautiful against the sun and coolly dapper, Sherlock had his hands tucked into the pockets of another dark suit, his ever-changing eyes cast towards the mountains. John was taken back, unaccustomed to how brilliantly _gorgeous_ the man was. 

The lawyer didn't say anything for a long time, even after John had returned to his cloud-gazing. Then, amongst the quiet of the outdoors, that startlingly smooth baritone glided across the breeze and wrapped itself around John. 

He'd only said hello, but something in the sentiment told John that Sherlock hoped that their next encounter wouldn't end as poorly as the day before. John said hello back, licking his lips in nervousness and interest as he often did. 

"May I sit here?" Sherlock Holmes, the equally as handsome as he was pretentious, lawyer asked politely.

John wanted to say, _What, you're not worried of staining your suit, are you?_ Or maybe even, _No, can't you see I've got company?_ Or even worse, _I'd prefer not,_ but it felt different this time, so he just nodded and squeaked a soft, "Yes."

Then, in one fluid motion, bending his spindly legs and lowering himself into the grass, Sherlock transformed from a pompous barrister to a mate John might've sat on a rooftop and watched the sunset with. He folded his arms over his knees and looked straight ahead. "It's nice," he said. 

"Yes, it is."

They sat for another tense minute like that, wondering which one of them would speak again. While both were quiet and calm, the warm breeze absolutely perfect amongst the silence, John's mind was screaming with questions. He wondered if the company still needed him to move, he wondered if Sherlock felt silly sitting beside smelly sheep, he wondered if there was something more to polite greetings, and he wondered if there was something more to them as men - as if there might be something desperately unspoken between them. 

Sherlock spoke then, causing John to flick his eyes over to his glorious profile, golden and smooth in the afternoon sun. "You have it great out here."

"Do I?" said John, already playing the witty banter card. With Sherlock, it was easy.

For the first time that day, the lawyer looked at John. His eyes were soft, ridden with just a touch of sadness. John knew the look of wasted opportunities well, and here was a paragon of someone who was worn out by it. Despite the regret in his face, the intensity of Sherlock's eyes, framed by high cheekbones and thick brows caught John off guard, and his stomach sunk to his pelvis like a schoolboy with a crush. John couldn't stop himself from searching every fine inch of Sherlock's face as he spoke. 

"You do," the pair of perfect lips said. "It's almost surreal. In the city, everything is so fast."

John finally turned away, if not to be rude for staring, then to compose his wild attraction. "I know, I've been."

Sherlock was still looking at John as he responded. Feeling the lawyer's eyes on him was uncomfortable and thrilling all at once. "Even the people who don't do anything don't have time to just sit around." He turned back towards the horizon. "It doesn't matter if you're a doctor or a slob, the peace in the city doesn't compare to the peace out here."

"That's exactly why I moved," said the shepherd. The lawyer smiled but didn't acknowledge his response otherwise. In that moment, John felt like telling Sherlock his whole damn life story, if you want to know the truth.

"Why else did you move, John?"

If this were some raunchy university party, or even a therapist appointment, John would've shut himself in and refused to open up so quickly. Here and now, however, he felt he could trust Sherlock. His words would fall on interested ears as they sat alone in the meadow. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"No family, then?"

"Not like that. I came back from the war, and life seemed pointless. Wasn't a smooth transition, obviously. Nowhere to go, nobody to see..."

Sherlock bristled as if he'd just discovered something fascinating. "You were in battle! Brilliant."

"Brilliant? It's really not - "

Eyes aflame with intense curiosity, Sherlock looked at John and shot, "That's what it is, isn't it? That's why you're so odd."

"Excuse me, I - "

"Your house, John, it's new. New enough to have been built a few years ago, based on the quality of the wood. And your clothes," his eyes dropped down John's chest, "They're not ancient, but not up-to-date, either. You must have bought them in the city as a 'last set of new clothes' before moving out here. Yesterday you said that you'd 'built a new life,' and I wondered what you'd meant. I could deduce everything but that. It's been a while, hasn't it? 'Course it has. You've been shepherding for more than five years, I'd say, based on the clothes and appliances. You must not get out much, too, with your half-hearted shave and hand-cut hairstyle. So you returned from battle and hid yourself away amongst a flock half a decade ago. And with the many wars, it only begs the question of _which,_ and furthermore, _why?_ "

Sherlock fell silent after that, though his face was still lit and the gears turning in his head. John was shocked. Everything Sherlock had said had been correct, clearly, but how he came to those conclusions was nothing short of… "Fantastic," John breathed, heart racing.

"What!?"

"...What?"

"That's not what people normally say."

John's hunger and sore bones seemed of little importance now. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

And there it was. Sherlock was so incredibly human, here, as he chuckled behind a tight smile and swooped his hands down his thighs. John was fascinated by this man, plain and simple. How he could be so alluring and accessible simultaneously, how he was absolutely breathtaking in every instance, yet John found it easy to talk to him like an old friend.

They were both smiling after that, the tension of business partners breaking to reveal a pair of flirty arseholes sitting together.

* * *

John was absolutely astounding this close. Sure, Sherlock had deduced him from the moment he saw him the morning before, but now he was laughing and shuffling and talking about himself, and it was all so wonderful. His light cinnamon scruff lined a sharp jaw, and sandy blond hair had been pushed back with strong hands. His neck and clavicle, which were both evident due to the snug undershirt, trembled with laughter. His blue eyes shone with wisdom when he looked at the sun and crinkled with handsome realism when he looked at Sherlock. His small lips were tortured and reddened by his teeth, and his sturdy, hard body lounged perfectly beside him.

What was better was that Sherlock had finally figured him out. Truthfully, it was a small detail in the complications of the shepherd, but the how and why this fit man was in the middle of a field, secluded from the city, was revealed.

And, to top it off, he was a military man! Sherlock was in heaven. Heaven touched by a bit of hell, once he remembered what his actual mission was. For the moment, however, he put it out of his mind. Conversation was flowing easily with John, and he felt happy and comfortable with him, so Sherlock let himself spare a day of work just to get to know the man.

Besides, Mycroft couldn't know if he stalled out here. There were no telephone booths to bug or mysterious black cars lurking about. Sherlock had already informed John of the situation, anyway, so a bit of a chat and maybe a snog wouldn't hurt anything.

Sherlock was still smiling when John posed a question on him, "Alright, then. How'd you figure all that? Well, you said how, but _how?_ "

"Very eloquent, John."

The shepherd wrinkled his nose but broke it with a grin. "No, really, tell me."

"Fine. I can deduce things, conclude facts. I observe everything, even when I don't want to. I can tell which of my coworkers have slept together and when they've just gotten a new pet. If I try really hard, let's say, in a situation for a case, I can link the smallest things to find the solution. It all sounds incredibly pretentious, I know..."

"No, it's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock beamed. John's compliments meant so much to him, even if they were the first of their kind. "Most people are idiots in comparison. My brain is like a rocket, trapped on a launch pad, where everyone else's might be flimsy bubblewrap."

"Thanks for that." John curled forward and hugged his knees. Sherlock took it as a sign to change his position as well, and he stretched back as John had.

"It's merely fact. Could you have done that? Can you look at me and tell me exactly why I've been doing what I've been doing in the last five years? No. You can't. Only my brother and I can… As far as I know."

John hugged his knees and rested his head on them as he looked at Sherlock. "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, it does sound incredibly pretentious."

Sherlock shrugged. He knew it was. He really couldn't help it though, could he? His mind shot off deductions before he could stop it. He was eager to change the subject at this point, so ventured into asking more about John. "What about you? Do you have any hidden powers?"

"You mean you can't tell with one look at me? No… Not really. I was a doctor in the war, so most of it comes from that. I played the clarinet in school, too. Does that count?"

"Surely, it must. Clarinet playing is an absolutely necessity as a doctor-shepherd."

"Oh, see, now you're just making fun. As if being a shepherd is something not to strive for."

"Isn't it?" said Sherlock.

"I didn't plan to be one, obviously. It just happened. After the war, it just fit, so it's all fine."

"And before that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dreams. What were your dreams before the war?"

John smiled wider, and God it was perfect, "Hey, it's my turn to ask something."

"Of course. Go on then."

John took a deep breath. "So… Law?"

Sherlock dipped his head back, the sun bright against his eyelids, "God. Not that. Please."

"So far I have bits and pieces of it… Controlling brother, father, running the company, you're their carrier pigeon, obviously overqualified for the job. Is that about right?"

"My dad raised me and Mycroft to be lawyers. No matter our other interests, we were going to law school. I tried to hold onto my favorite things, like music and art, but little time for that when studying defendants and witnesses and juries."

John was playing with the laces on his boots. "I'd have thought law school would have been a breeze for a genius like you."

 _"Genius." He called me a genius. God help me._ "It was, in some aspects. The due process and rules and regulations were easy enough, but my people skills are… lacking." Sherlock thought of the many times he'd scared clients off by being too harsh or brash. Keeping that in mind, he tried as best he could to be open and easy and conversational with John. He didn't need to give John a reason to dislike him, especially not now.

"You mean people didn't like being told when they're going to die based on a coffee stain? What a concept!"

Sherlock swore at John, but he smiled through it. "Prick." 

This was so different for Sherlock. He would _never_ talk like this, let alone with someone he was trying to impress. He felt out of character and flirty and young. It was strange, but it wasn't entirely unfamiliar, and John seemed to like it, so he stuck with it. Even his rare smiles were now common, and he wasn't worried of being called rude when he stared at John for too long.

Sherlock admired John just then, his handsome face warmed by the sun. Sherlock was in awe of him, for how strong he was for taking a risk in the midst of pointlessness. He'd moved out and started a career which he wasn't prepared for in the least, all because he didn't want to go back to his old life. Sherlock had done the same, or had tried to when life had gotten too boring, but he'd handled it differently and ended up strung-out in an alleyway. In contrast, John was honorable and great, despite him having said nothing about war achievements or personal success. Sherlock just _knew_ he was fantastic, just as he knew he could trust him. 

John's eyelashes glowed gold when he turned his eyes to the sky. Sherlock watched, fascinated. _He's magnificent. Glorious and brave. He must have saved so many soldiers,_ Sherlock thought.

Before those thoughts could transition into, _He must have shagged so many soldiers,_ John apologized for his biting sarcasm. "Sorry, sorry. Okay. Lawyers, right? You became a lawyer."

"Still am. Not very active, except for this trip."

Something flashed in John's face. "This… This is a job," stated the shepherd, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"I'm off-duty." He attempted to restore some of that brilliance in John's eyes. Now that he'd seen that beautiful happiness, he couldn't imagine them widening in horror or pain. John then smiled softly, burying his head into his knees.

"Good. Okay, you asked about my dreams? Well, I didn't really know what to do before the war. I sort of just wanted to fuck around. Then I realized that I ought to do something, and I've always liked the idea of medicine and the army, so after some research, I went to school to become a doctor, then went off to Afghanistan. Was there for a long time. Got shot, so I came back. Now I don't know what my dreams are, outside of caring for the flock."

Fiddling with his cuff as he listened, Sherlock hung on every word. John was just more fascinating by the second, from his honesty to his constant loyalty to his animals. 

Apparently, Sherlock took too long to respond as he was watching John, so John spoke again. "Tell me… Tell me about your childhood."

He didn't like talking about his life outside of the present day, much less his childhood, but John was lovely and his eyes were crinkling a smile at him, so Sherlock swallowed and prepared his best dramatic spiel. "My mother loved me very much when I was born. I was her little boy. Mycroft, too, liked to play with me and run around the grassy space behind our house. He read me stories about pirates and did his job as an older brother as well as he could. I have another brother, too, but Mycroft liked me better. I was excited and smart from the start, living out adventures with my dog and doing experiments on anything and everything. However, once school came around, classmates weren't as accepting as my family, and my intelligence sort of drove them away. As I got older, Mycroft began drifting apart. I told him nobody wanted to be my friend because of how 'snotty' I was in class, and he told me that I didn't need people to succeed. Caring for other people always got in the way what we were meant to do, which at that point was painfully clear to me. I grew up, studied to be a lawyer, and the rest you already know."

John pursed his lips and nodded slowly after Sherlock finished. He felt wordy and mouthy after speaking, and as the silence settled in again, he was grateful that John let it. The shepherd then stretched out and lay back in the grass, his strong arms tucked under his head. Sherlock looked down at him, at his solid torso and the peeking expanse of skin by his hips. He tried not to flush as he felt John catch him looking at it, and instead lay himself back beside John. This proved to be an incredible idea on John's part, considering how stiff Sherlock had become sitting there. 

He was just a bit sleepy, a little more hungry, and his lips and tongue were tired of talking, but he wouldn't give up the chance to talk to John for all the sleep and water in the world. Luckily, John must have been drained as well, because he didn't say anything else as he closed his eyes and hummed a satisfied breath.

Sherlock followed his lead, letting his worn eyes close against the sun. He hadn't been with John too long, but the hot sun and peaceful silence was wearing him down.

With the warm breeze keeping the air sweet and fresh, the grass soft against his neck and the back of his hands, and the comfortable feeling of a wonderful new friend beside him, Sherlock drifted off into a light slumber.

* * *

When John awoke, warm and fuzzy and happy, Sherlock was still asleep. John sat up and stretched his arms above his head, twisting his torso and popping his back. He pulled up his knees again and looked, through sleepy eyes, at the man beside him. His suit was bunched up at his shoulders and a strip of navy blue dress shirt (that matched his socks) peeked at John from above his trouser hem, where a silver belt buckle glinted in the sun. John let his eyes travel from the man's pointed black shoes, up his legs, over the soft rise and fall in his stomach and chest, to his beautiful face. As precious as a marble masterpiece, Sherlock's pale cheeks and pink lips were illuminated by the high, golden sun. He was absolutely astounding and, quite frankly, John couldn't help but stare for just a bit longer than he'd like to admit. Gorgeously dark and angular in contrast to the soft pastels of the grass and sky, Sherlock's left foot twitched in his sleep.

John laughed quietly. _Incredible. Absolutely incredible. He's comfortable enough around me to fall asleep. And he didn't leave me when I was, too. What have I gotten into?_ He turned his eyes back to the rolling hills. The dips and valleys in the earth sat calmly amidst the powdery sky, and the fluffy white clouds from earlier had thinned into wisps of stretched cotton. John watched the sky for a bit longer, waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He hadn't known how long he'd been asleep, but based on the position of the sun in the sky, it couldn't have been more than an hour.

He looked over his shoulder at the city, grey and ugly in the distance. He loved being disconnected from that world, even though there were bits of it that he missed. Those parts, however, was all that Sherlock was. The modern sleekness of suits and impressive careers, the unapologetic rudeness, conversing with strangers…

Could Sherlock be called a stranger, though? John thought not. He knew all about his childhood and his job. The only thing he didn't know was if he was interested in men or not, and by concept, interested in John. He had a feeling that he was, but he didn't want to gamble these things. However, John wasn't the master of subtlety, so at least his half of the attraction had to be fairly obvious. And if it wasn't, well, he's just have to ask Sherlock when he woke up. 

John was planning how he'd go about asking when he felt a nudge on his shoulder. He turned his head to the left and was met with a happy little sheep face. John turned his body towards her and began petting her.

"Hey…" He whispered. "Haven't seen you in a while. How have you been?"

Violet shuffled forward in response and softly bleated. She nuzzled her head into John's shoulder and he let his head fall into her coat, hugging her. She smelled like dust and hay and sheep, an extremely comforting smell to John. Of course, at this point, pompous lawyer's cologne could be just as comforting. 

He snuggled his sheep for a bit, relishing the peace in communicating with an animal wordlessly. She wriggled out of his embrace eventually, though, and waddled over to the sleeping Sherlock. 

"Wait!" John mouthed. "Don't wake him…" 

But Violet was already stepping around his lengthy body and sniffing him. John crawled closer and restrained her before she nibbled the pointed toe of Sherlock's shoe. He tugged on her thick, wooly body and shifted to pull her into his lap. She stupidly complied, but nuzzled into John's hand merrily anyway. He rubbed his scruff on her head and told her, "That's Sherlock. He's brilliant. I like him a lot. I think he'll want to meet you when he wakes up." 

Violet bleated and struggled to free herself from John's embrace. She stood up on wobbly legs and went back to inspecting Sherlock. 

"Fine, fine," John said, brushing the dirt and grass from him. Violet looked back at him with glassy eyes before she snuffled around Sherlock's groin and legs. John had to stifle his laugh with his hand as Violet moved onto Sherlock's chest, curious. John watched on, smiling like an idiot, as she nudged his neck with her nose. He rustled a little bit, furrowing his brows. She did it again, his time bumping his cheek with her head. 

Giddy with excitement, John raised himself slightly to watch as Sherlock woke. He squeezed his eyes and turned his head away from Violet's playful licks. He raised a large hand from his head and swatted at the direction of the sheep, eyes still closed. John was laughing now, Violet bouncing out of the way quick enough to shove her head back in his face. 

Finally, Sherlock opened his dazzling turquoise eyes and blinked the sun out of them, shielding his face with his hand. Violet butted against his arm, which caused him to look puzzlingly towards her. He looked confused for a moment before she came towards him again. He then jolted away and sat up, a slightly worried look on his face.

John was laughing hard now, clutching his stomach, tears in his eyes. It subsided for a second, but when he looked at Sherlock again, his hair all messy, his face sticky with sheep spit, he burst again. Sherlock laughed a bit, too, his eyes stuck on John. Violet had carried her fuzzy rump out of the scene, since she was obviously interrupting something.

Finally, John could speak without wheezing. "Forgot where you were, did you?"

"Yes… I've also never been woken up with a good morning kiss from a sheep."

John flushed amongst his laughter, and Sherlock tightened his lips as he looked down. Another tense silence passed then, almost as if the incredible surrealism of the moment needed a bit of credit all on its own. 

"Well then, hello." John said to break it.

"Hello. How long was I asleep?"

"We were both passed out for about an hour, I would guess. I woke up before you, before Violet came over to say hi."

"Violet? She's nice. A bit pushy."

The shepherd laughed again, "Yeah. She's always been a curious one. How was your nap?"

"Warm. I don't remember what I dreamt of," said Sherlock.

"Me neither." John stretched again and looked over at Sherlock shyly, hoping to catch him looking. He did. _That was definitely not subtle, Sherlock,_ he thought. He tried to pretend he hadn't seen it, but he wasn't sure when Sherlock was so perceptive. It didn't matter at this point, really. Anything he could do to get Sherlock to stay, orgasms or no, was acceptable. Now that he was rested a bit, John felt more like talking. So he ventured. "Back to questions, or what?"

Sherlock pulled his knees in and rubbed his hands over them. "Sure. Don't think there's anything left to ask, but go for it - "

"Do you have a girlfriend?" John's heart was jittery and he was nervous at asking that, but he needed to know. It was also a totally valid question, assumptions or not.

He looked taken back, but he just breathed and looked at John solemnly. "Girlfriends aren't really my area."

"Oh. …Oh!" Sherlock maintained eye contact as John pressed on, "So… You've got a boyfriend?"

"Not at the moment."

"Right, me neither. Or girlfriend. Just… single. Unattached."

"Well, I'd figure it'd be hard to keep up a romantic life when you're alone, surrounded by sheep. Unless your relationship with your sheep is unconventional…"

John was happy Sherlock had broken the seriousness with a joke. He was happy for a lot of reasons, actually, especially at just discovering Sherlock was wholly and totally an acceptable option to court. "No, no, Violet's just a friend. Yeah, it gets extremely lonely out here. But even if I were to find someone, I don't think I could keep them for long."

"Oh?"

"Trust issues."

"I see. Well, join the club."

"You too?" John's attraction had increased, if that were possible.

"Sort of. According to Mycroft, I care too much. Put too much trust into people when I ought not to."

John wished he was physically closer to Sherlock. Even the foot between them was too far. "I get that. Hey, okay, questions. Who was your first crush? Throughout school and stuff?"

The handsome man beside him huffed a regretful laugh and carted his slender fingers through his brunet curls. "The first… The first was a boy named Gavin in gradeschool. He didn't know me at all, but I thought he was funny and cute, or something. There was a few more after that up until uni, but none of them ever passed that sort of far-off admiration."

"And in uni?"

"Victor. We were good friends; I was his tutor. He had a girlfriend."

"I'm sorry."

"What about you?"

"First crush? James Bond. In the movies. While my sister wanted to _be_ him, I wanted to be the one beside him. After that, there were a few boys I also admired from afar throughout elementary school. It was only until a girl named Stacy kissed me when I was 10 that I got my first girlfriend. Dated on and off with some more girls through school, but I never felt extremely loving towards them. In uni there was a lot of shagging, men and women. That's basically it."

"You're lying."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed mischievously. "That's not it at all. There was someone else."

John pursed his lips and shook his head. A few seconds passed along the afternoon breeze until he gave in. "I've never told anyone about it, but… One of my majors in Afghanistan was the hardest I've ever fallen for anyone up until that point. It was bloody annoying, though, because not only were we in hot little tents with no time to spare, but we sort of went from mates to drunken shagging. Don't know what he's doing now, really."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. 

"Sorry, that was sad. Ignore me." John tried to fix it, considering that could be reason for Sherlock to be jealous. _That's assuming he likes me…_

"No, no. It's fine. I like hearing about it. About you."

"Oh, do you now? Well, I have plenty of war stories if you'd like to hear them. Ones that maybe aren't as sad."

The gorgeous lawyer smiled wide, "I'd like that."

"Well, I had a mate in the war named Casey, yeah? We were still pretty young, and he wasn't the smartest guy academically, but I tell you, he could make anything funny. He would host these sort of, um, shows in the tents when we had time. He'd take our toothpaste and a toothbrush and make a reenactment of our worst superiors. Imitate them and everything. Voices, name drops, exaggerations, all of it. And he'd tell jokes, too. The rudest, most crude things I've ever heard, but God, were they funny."

Sherlock looked entranced. His face was lit up with a wonderstruck grin. "Incredible."

"Yeah, he made it all a little bit easier." _I miss him a lot. Wish he didn't have to go._ John said to himself. He decided not to tell Sherlock that, though. "The law firm must have some clowns, wouldn't it?"

"Well, there's Anderson, who's only funny because of how stupid he is. I know that he's an alright bloke, but for God's sakes, he lowers the IQ of the whole block when he talks. He'll ask me hypothetical questions about cases. The solutions are so simple, and yet he's hung up on the most irrelevant things. And there's Lestrade, who I'm very fond of, but who is sort of too loyal for his own good. He helped me out a lot when I was younger, and he's my brother's better half. He's really my only friend, and even then he can't really stand me."

John smiled. "Well, now you have another. Friend, I mean."

"Ah, yes, Violet. A bit smelly, but I like her."

"You arse. I meant me."

"Of course, of course," Sherlock ruffled his hair, golden sun catching the spirals and loops as they fluffed. "Good old John… John… Er…"

"Watson. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes."

"Right. John Watson. Army doctor, shepherd, clarinet-playing friend of Sherlock Holmes."

John's face was red and his heart was tender from all the times it'd leapt. His stomach coiled when Sherlock looked at him for too long, and the more they talked, the more sure John was that something could potentially happen. The thought alone could get him going again, but he willed himself to remain calm. "I like the sound of that," said the shepherd, beaming.

"Good." Sherlock smiled again, his angular face pulling his plush lips taut and illuminating his pretty cheeks. 

After that, John almost lost track of what they'd talked about. It was all witty banter, light flirting, and hinting at extremely erotic fantasies. He laughed and smiled and shone as bright as the sun with Sherlock, who looked more like the serene moon when a cloud passed across the sun, dousing him in silver-grey light. 

John, while admiring how damn beautiful his new friend looked beside him, was still eager and antsy for more. He was just a man, after all. A man with a high sex drive which was even higher when Sherlock dipped his head back and moaned, low and sexy from his slender throat. 

"God, I love it here." 

"Hey." said John, an idea bubbling in his sneaky little head that had potential if he prepared properly. "Stand up."

Sherlock whined. Once again, John found it strangely erotic. "No, it's nice down here."

John leapt to his feet, his knees creaking and blood rushing back to his head. He bent over and stretched his back and arms as he spoke, "C'mon, I bet you're hungry."

Eyes glinting with a touch of silver, the lawyer looked up at John and licked his lips. He then bounced up to a standing position, and John was hit with the sheer size of him. Tall and lean and brooding. He pouted his plump lips.

 _Well, maybe not brooding,_ John thought as Sherlock grinned playfully. 

"Lead the way," the tall suit motioned ahead of him. John took the lead, the road and the horizon spreading out before him as if he hadn't seen it the same for the last five years. Now, everything was new. It didn't have to be perfect, necessarily, to impress Sherlock, but the jittery feelings John hadn't had inside him since he was a teenager made him hope that everything he planned would be as magical and out-of-place as the man himself. 

They walked across the field then, maneuvering between bleating fluffs of white, chatting lightly and knocking elbows. Every few seconds, John would look at Sherlock by turning all of his head, and Sherlock would do he same once John looked back and smiled to himself.

A woman driving by the field, with her screaming daughter in back and grainy, broken radio buzzing, knew there was something incredible happening between the men walking together, even if she only caught a fleeting glimpse of them. Sherlock, to the woman, looked tall in a dark suit, hands dug in his pockets like a skinny shadow of a man with a tousled, loose, handsome John beside him, blue halves of his worker's shirt fluttering like butterfly wings and light hair glowing like golden honey. They walked across the field, in their own little moment, and as the woman passed, she couldn't deny she was jealous of it. 

John lead Sherlock towards the barn, noticing how his curious eyes darted across the house when they passed it. The lawyer didn't protest, however, and followed the short, solid man towards the large wooden double doors. Upon them, with one eye carefully watching Sherlock's reactions, John took one half of the dry, brown wood in both hands by the ledge, and yanked with his full body. The half slid easily from the force, the scraping sound echoing between the men and rousing John's sheep. John stepped back and directed Sherlock inside silently, a coy grin on his lips. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the heart of it - when you witness them falling in love, just by sitting in a field and talking. Amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dusty amber sun filtering in from the window surrounded them and cast an almost spiritual scene.

The lawyer stepped into the barn lightly, not because the dirt and hay would soil his delicate suit, but because he didn't want his own posh presence to disturb the down-to-earth atmosphere that resonated in the damp, warm space. Walking on tender feet now, Sherlock felt at peace enough not to deduce every little thing he saw. He didn't think of how long the piles of hay and sacks of various veggies had been around, nor did he speculate when the barn was last painted. No, instead, the overly-attentive lawyer just took it all in: the rectangular expanse, little wooden pens lining the walls, the smell of hay and fleece, the soft compression of dirt under his shoes, the various levels for extra storage, or even the warmth coming from John behind him. He noticed it all, soaking the feeling in with wide, glassy eyes. He was almost drunk off the simplicity of it all, but John quickly sobered him up with a low laugh and a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Like it?" He said, appearing beside him in all his shepherd beauty, fingers trailing around his bicep as he moved.

Sherlock breathed in the smell of hay and sheep, "Fantastic."

"This way."

John moved in front, leaving Sherlock to ogle grossly at his arse. He walked with a sort of ridiculous sway, his strong forearms tucked into the belt loops at his hips and his head turning occasionally to check in with Sherlock. They walked for a few seconds before John stopped again, Sherlock nearly bumping into him. "Here," he muttered, leaning down and reaching for something.

Sherlock watched as John revealed two precious, red apples. He handed one to him, calloused fingertips brushing the lawyer's as he took the fruit. It was cold to the touch and firm in his nervous palm. John's eyes glinted navy as he raised his to his mouth. 

"Apples in the barn?" Sherlock asked before John bit into it. 

"The sheep like them. As a treat." 

Putting the apple to his own lips, Sherlock muttered, "I see." He bit into it, the sweet freshness igniting the hunger he'd been ignoring for the past few hours. It wasn't much, but the crisp taste and sugary nectar perked Sherlock up. Or was that the way John was looking at him as he ate his own apple, never relinquishing eye contact?

 _Are apples aphrodisiacs?_ Sherlock asked himself as they continued to much happily away, occasionally laughing into the wet fruit. Sherlock craned his neck around and found the woven basket from which John had retrieved them, smiling into his snack at how John, the handsome shepherd with the gorgeous barn, had a bloody basket of apples just hanging around in the shadows. _It's like he's not even real._

They finished their apples leaning against the nearby wood and licking their lips. John tossed his apple core into a dirt pile over his shoulder, and after a wary look from Sherlock and a playful nod back, he aimed for the same pile and tossed his own. 

John wiped his hands on his thighs. "Better?" 

The lawyer dipped his head back and moaned, quite devilishly, "Yes."

"Still hungry?"

"A bit."

"Here." John reached into the basket once again, the strip of skin on his tailbone peeking at Sherlock. He came back up with one apple and, without warning, dug his right thumb into the apple's core where the stem ought to be and pushed hard, the fruit splitting with a satisfying crack right down the middle. He pulled his thumb and shook his hand as if it hurt. He handed one half to Sherlock. "This work?"

Sherlock didn't know why he didn't just give him another apple, considering there was many, or even how John was able to do that so perfectly, but before John ate his half, he locked eyes with Sherlock and did something very, _very_ interesting. He raised the thumb he'd used to split the apple to his mouth and sucked the sweet juices off it with pink lips, cheeks hollowed and deep eyes stuck on Sherlock in a way which caused heat to pool in his stomach and a tight heaviness to appear at his groin. 

"Uh-h…" Sherlock said stupidly, flushed and surprised with disbelief.

Then John was back to John, and with a lighthearted laugh, he nodded towards towards the apple. "Well then, eat that. I have something to show you."

Sherlock did as he was told, mind still shocked at John's obvious invitation for sex. _I accept,_ Sherlock said to himself as he ate his half, still just as delicious as the first time around.

After a few minutes of more apple snacking, John dropped the seeds and hard bits from the middle into the dirt and nodded towards the far end of the barn. Sherlock followed, now extremely interested and fairly certain he knew what lay at the end of the barn.

* * *

But he'd been wrong. Sex with John was not what lay at the end of barn, but in fact, something else entirely. Enveloped in a veil of sunlight from a barn window, a pregnant ewe lay in a pile of hay, soft and round and peaceful. John kneeled beside her gently and stroked her head. Everything in the barn was quiet for bit, with Sherlock watching silently as nature lined up with man, and his respect and adoration for John transitioned into absolute awe. 

He looked so beautiful sitting beside the ewe, with his tan hands stroking her fleece, his face calm and serene. The dusty amber sun filtering in from the window surrounded them and cast an almost spiritual scene. John's tranquil eyes turned to Sherlock and beckoned him to sit on the other side of the animal.

The lawyer liked animals, he did, but he always found himself talking to them and humanizing them. While John definitely seemed to do the same with his sheep, this time it seemed that the sheep was letting _John_ into _her_ world. Only when comfortable would a pregnant animal, especially one as powerful as a full grown sheep, let another creature take care of her. Sherlock didn't know if he was welcomed or not.

He stood awkwardly for a moment longer, the sheep's chestnut eyes tilting towards Sherlock. John mouthed for Sherlock to get down here, for as lovely as his voice was, now was not the time for it, and the silence of the barn settled around them as Sherlock shifted and rustled down and into the hay.

John looked at him kindly and reached out a hand. Sherlock took it tenderly and let John guide him to the ewe's thick, dusty white curls. It was an extremely intimate touch really, and in the simple movement of laying his hand on top of his, Sherlock knew that John's intentions with him, whatever they may be, would never be anything other than good. 

The shepherd and the lawyer both pet the animal gently then, and once she shifted her fuzzy head to rest on Sherlock's knee, John couldn't help but laugh tenderly. It was as beautiful a sound as the harmless chimes of birds outside the barn.

"She likes you." He whispered. 

"What's her name?"

"Celine. Isn't she wonderful?"

"Yes…" Sherlock hadn't been filled with this much adoration and love in years, if ever. He felt warm and safe and part of some fantastic story that loving mothers told their children before they slept. A watercolor picture book with fields and fuzzy sun and musty old barns with far too much love in them, simple black text telling the story of a curious child. He was sure that John was even hiding some grumpy old barn cat somewhere, and her kittens were tumbling balls of fur popping in and out of hay. That was what it felt like to be beside John and Celine, calm and part of nature, like a surge of energy rolling forward just long enough to blend into a steady hum. 

Even though he would love nothing less than to stare into John's eyes for a long, long time, he kept his gaze on the offset white of Celine's fleece. He could feel John watching him from across the way, and it burned red in his cheeks and golden in his heart.

It was silent for a long time before John spoke again, his voice perfectly tuned into the serenity of it all. "Y'know, the first time one of ewes got pregnant, I was so scared. I'd seen men die, good men, right before my eyes, and somehow the thought of live birth, that surely I'd have to assist, scared me more than anything." He stroked her head and scratched behind her ears. She bubbled her mouth in response and Sherlock felt it on his knee. "I had this old farmer to help me through it when the time came. It was messy and I panicked a little bit, which was funny because I'm a doctor. I've seen worse things and have studied how to treat all sorts of permanent wounds, but somehow this was totally new to me. I looked it up and everything, right, did my research… It was just… different." He was quiet for bit, almost as if he'd said too much. Sherlock stroked up higher and knocked his hand against John's to let him know he was listening. He continued, voice still soft. "But then it happened and I saw that little sticky lamb and it was like it was all worth it. All of it. The stress, the money, the planning. They say that about parents with a baby, and I know that it's common, but I didn't think I'd feel it, if ever. This sounds pretty clichéd, doesn't it?"

"No, no…" _John, you are anything but a cliché. You're absolutely wonderful. I'd never have thought I'd be sharing in such an intimate moment with someone as incredible as you. Please, tell me everything. I want to know everything._ "I'm listening."

"See, all my life I'd been sort of waiting for things to feel different. I thought the feeling of uselessness would go away in uni, or in training, or the war, but it didn't. I was doing things, and important things, too, but I still felt like I was waiting for something. Then I saw my best friends die, I got shot, and I had to leave one of the best men I'd ever known to return to what? A restless city? But when I found this place, and met William, and my first ram, and watched my first birth… I finally felt like I'd gotten somewhere. I'd finally been a part of that magical moment that makes you wonder if life is really real. If it's not just made up of moments after all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John." The wonderful shepherd let the silence settle once more, but Sherlock decided to take a chance and speak again. "It's how I feel right now."

And then John looked at him. He looked at him with eyes so full of love and understanding that Sherlock thought he might burst, and Sherlock just looked back, unsure of what was to come next, or even why he'd found him in the first place, but happy and content nonetheless. They sat with Celine for a while longer, cashing in on the simplicity of the promise of new life and the warmth of tame animals. When John finally rose from beside Celine, he reached a hand out for Sherlock to shimmy himself from under the sleepy ewe's head. Sherlock stood, hay clinging to his wrinkled, dusty suit, took John's hand, and followed him to whatever their next moment entailed.

* * *

John had forgotten why Sherlock was there in the first place. He'd forgotten that time was scarce and that he'd known Sherlock for less than a full day. None of this was in his mind as he walked Sherlock through the barn, flirting more recklessly with him than he had with anybody. All reservations he may have had upon meeting him were gone now, and only the tender smile Sherlock gave him every few laughs remained. 

If the shepherd was to be honest with himself, which he often wasn't, he'd swear that he had fallen for the lawyer, and hard. That now, all he wanted was to spend every second with him, learning all he could about him and living every day out within the almost fantasy Sherlock brought. Of course, he could only convey this through suggestive banter so much, and the rest was just looking at Sherlock like he was the moon, eyes shiny with adoration.

It wasn't far-fetched to say John adored Sherlock. Not in the least. The rational side of him might've felt like it was too soon to tell, but when the true romantic inside him looked back, their afternoon together had revealed how utterly compatible they'd be. Passionate and stubborn maybe, but compatible nonetheless. And God, John wouldn't let that connection slip away. Not this time.

The ex-army doctor led the genius down the musty length of the barn with something naughty in mind. It'd been in his mind since he'd seen the man, but now it seemed much more approachable, especially considering all the hints he'd picked up. Sherlock would look at him just a bit too long, sometimes at his groin, sometimes at his lips. He'd move closer when they walked and smile coyly before darting his eyes away. While this wasn't gradeschool, the obvious textbook flirting was definitely appreciated, considering how clueless John often was with men. He was looking at Sherlock's sharp profile when he spoke, eyes glancing about the barn, "John."

 _God, when you say my name,_ John thought helplessly. "Yes?"

"Where are we going?"

"Why, do you have to leave?" he panicked.

"No, no," the lawyer assured him, "Just wondering. Last time I followed you blindly, I met a precious mammal. Don't know what to expect now."

John knocked Sherlock's arm with his shoulder playfully. It'd been less than three minutes since they'd left the ewe, and Sherlock was already treating it like a pinpoint moment on their timeline together. He knocked back. "Didn't mind it, did you? With Celine?"

"Obviously not."

"Obviously not," John mocked.

Sherlock smirked but otherwise ignored the tease. "Unless there's more to this barn than you let on, I'm clueless. Tell me where we're going."

"The truth?"

"Yes, the truth." 

 _Well, I'm hoping that you'll follow me up into my secret loft and have sex with me in the warm hay._ "There's a place up on the second level just over there where I like to sit. I thought you might want to join me." _Join me for a shag or two._

Sherlock turned his eyes towards the place which John nodded to. John followed his curious gaze, looking up at the loft with high hopes for it. Sherlock walked toward it slowly, leaving John to watch his round bum. 

"Well?" John said. 

The lawyer didn't respond, only climbed up the wooden steps leading onto the second level. He dropped to all fours and shuffled into the hay, the golden light from the late afternoon sun enveloping him in a grainy golden film.

John followed him up, heart leaping and pulse quickening. "I'll take that as a yes."

When situated beside Sherlock, suddenly quite aware of the little space they had, John reveled in the sitting close as he watched Sherlock soak up the atmosphere. He watched as his eyes flicked to the window, where the green dips and humps of the landscape now dripped with shadows of clouds and just a bit of amber light. Sherlock looked at the dry, old hay under them and at the various ropes and tools hanging from the sloping wooden wall. His gaze travelled to a stack of newspapers and a rolled up blanket, nestled against a pillow. He was completely and terrifyingly beautiful when inspecting John's favorite place, and as much as his presence contrasted the laziness of the loft, John wouldn't want it any other way.

"You sleep up here?" he asked, his pretty eyes gesturing towards the patched blanket.

"In the summer, when I want to get away from the house and stay with my sheep. Haven't been up here in a while."

"All those papers are from a few years ago."

 _Clever, you're so clever. It's fantastic._ "I like to reminisce." 

"Hm." It seemed Sherlock was done talking for the moment, as he pressed his plump lips together in a taut line. His eyes, which never seemed to stay one color, were now a blasted green flecked with a sunset golden. They swept over the rest of the barn once again as if he was still fascinated by the wooden planks and patches of sun scattered across the hay. After a moment of observation, he leaned back against the wall behind them and lifted his hips as he shifted his position. Relaxed and pretty like a painting, Sherlock rolled his head over to John and looked at him through heavy eyelids. "I don't want to leave," he whispered. It was an out of place statement, and John hadn't said anything to encourage it, but he understood exactly what the man meant, and it made him drunk with hope.

"So don't." John leaned back and mirrored Sherlock's position. They were rather close together based on the size of the loft, and their faces had less than a foot between them. John looked into the eyes of the man he'd been waiting for, his breath suddenly erratic, his face flushed, his heart fluttering.

"I have to." Sherlock's heated gaze dropped to his John's lips, and if John hadn't already been stuck on the pink plushness of Sherlock's mouth, he'd have noticed how they both were leaning in, the weight of their bodies against the wood planks countering the weight of reality and guiding their faces closer inch by slow inch. "At some point…" His deep baritone rumbled in John's chest.

"Not now…" John let the frisson wrap him in a haze, the warmth of Sherlock's breath barely brushing the tip of his nose. Inaudible to anyone but Sherlock, John murmured, "Stay…" 

And then, hiding away in a barn loft, the almost-kiss turned into a real kiss, the soft compression of their mouths enclosing the last of the space between them.

John kissed Sherlock with nothing but electricity in his head, Sherlock returning the touch gently. The men leaned in again to deepen it, so much so that John almost lost his balance. He steadied himself, still attached to Sherlock, with one palm. It landed on Sherlock's thigh but wasn't unwelcome, considering he felt a vibration of a near-moan against his lips. 

With that sign of consent, the shepherd twisted his head and opened his mouth, tenderly exploring with the tip of his tongue as he moved both hands to Sherlock's thighs and slipped them up, up, up. 

Sherlock worked under his hands like a dream, soft and solid all at once. His lips moved with fever as John rose to his knees, never breaking the kiss. Sherlock pulled back and moved to his neck as he swiveled his body too, his hands finding John's taut core quickly. 

With a breathy gasp of half of Sherlock's name, John heated when Sherlock's mouth sucked a red mark on his tender skin. When Sherlock released him with a pop, John quickly found his mouth again, lining up their kneeling bodies and touching Sherlock's thin waist. Licking into his mouth as he pressed Sherlock back, they leaned until Sherlock fell into the hay, stripes of the setting sun flickering against their touching faces as they went.

Cradling Sherlock's head in one hand, the other still at his waist, John lay on top of Sherlock now, still passionately snogging him. They squirmed and writhed together, bodies growing accustomed to the movements of the other. Sherlock's hands swooped down John's back and around his ribs, pushing under the open halves of his blue flannel. John groaned when Sherlock moved his legs, making space for their groins to align. 

Already hard and eagerly grinding, John released Sherlock's mouth for air and panted beside his ear, breathing hot breaths into his curls. "I want…" 

"I know." Sherlock said into his neck.

"What do you…?" John ground into him, stomach clenching at the hardness he felt below.

"You." Sherlock groaned.

"God, yes." John weaved his strong arms under Sherlock's back and rolled them to the left, locking their legs and pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock rolled his body against John, his mouth tugging at John's lips, his mouth brushing against the prickly stubble of John's beard. Then he kissed all around John's chin until he found his way back to his mouth, planting a full, pouty-lipped smooch on him. 

They kissed and kissed more, as if they wouldn't have enough time for kissing based on where they both wanted to end up. Sherlock ground into John as John gripped his hips, slight moans of encouragement sending sparks down John's core and into his cock. He felt Sherlock nip and bite at his lips, and it only encouraged him more as he reached for Sherlock's arse, but as he did, Sherlock was pulling back.

John watched from below as Sherlock's strong trunk leaned over John, his wrinkled tie tickling John in the face. Curious as to what he was doing, John let out a heady, mumbled, "Wha…?" but Sherlock was already answering it when the familiar colors and patterns of John's blanket graced his line of sight. He watched with interest as Sherlock fluffed it and spread it out to his right, little wisps of hay drifting all around them. Sherlock then turned his attention back to John, who really needed it, truth be told, and looked directly into his face with the smuggest expression John had ever seen someone give him in the midst of a romp. His eyes gleamed mischievously as he locked his knees around John's hips and swooped his arms under his back, lifting him up and over as they tumbled again, back the opposite direction, and directly onto the blanket. Sherlock landed with a huff, breathing heavy underneath John.

"Smart," John said, sounds slurred against his swollen lips and slick tongue. 

"Well, you know me," responded Sherlock, large hands frantic against John's solid form. 

John leaned down and breathed hot against Sherlock's neck, which was pink and blotchy from the various eager hickies he'd gotten, "I think I do."

Sherlock groaned and rocked his hips into John's groin, "Yes, God, yes, you know me… You know me so well."

Apparently this fact had gotten Sherlock more heated than any petty dirty-talk John could offer, so he continued with it and similar coos like it as Sherlock stripped the blue lumberjack's shirt off his toned arms and revealed his lovely muscles to the golden-orange rays of the setting sun. Still looking for any place he could put his mouth as John murmured sentimentalities to him, Sherlock let his large hands swoop up the grey ripples of John's undershirt, over his taut core and tracing delicately into the rut of his clavicle. John closed his eyes to the touch. It was passionate but still gentle, completely unlike the rough, "My-son-is-in-the-car" sex he'd have with the occasional tourist flings. Every touch had purpose, mostly just to feel John's skin. 

At this point, John was fairly certain that Sherlock was just as taken with him as he was, considering he was writhing and moaning under him, trying desperately to shed his own crumpled suit jacket. John took his face in his hands as he struggled at an angle, his strong trunk holding him up. He looked deep into Sherlock's turquoise eyes, set against tender, blushing skin. He could see the veins in Sherlock's lids and the places where his black lashes turned brown at the tips. He even had a splash of tan freckles across the bridge of his nose, completely unrecognizable from afar. 

"Jesus, you're beautiful," John said, pads of his thumbs swiping over his prominent cheekbones.

Sherlock let out a grateful sigh as he flung the jacket across the small loft, leaving his arms free to squeeze around John's waist. He grumbled as he tore his face away from John's hold and buried it in his chest, vibrations ringing in John's bones like the sweet hum of a bumblebee. 

"You are," John said, a rush of romanticism flooding him like the blood in his groin, "You absolutely are. Hey, let me see you."

Now, normally, John would've hated to say something like 'Let me see you.' He would've grimaced at the creepy sweetness and made a gagging pantomime. But now he understood why couples acted that way, as if they could never see or touch enough of the other. That's all he wanted with Sherlock. Nevermind the pleasure or gratification of a good orgasm, he wanted to _be with him_. 

Obviously, he cut through the dreamy haze enough to realize that now was not the time for that, no matter how intimate he felt with Sherlock in a steamy loft. So the shepherd settled for a good fuck, laced with romance and incredible longing. 

Sherlock looked up at him, glassy eyes and pretty smile casting him as the ethereal beauty he most definitely seemed. "Yeah," John breathed. "Gorgeous."

And then it was back to groping and kissing and rutting, the tender moment passing between them and leaving the horniness to take over. They snogged and ground together for a bit before John pulled back with a wet slip of his lips. He wanted to see the disheveled mess under him: a lawyer in a crumpled navy blue dress shirt, some of its buttons askew or tugged open, a black tie hanging off to the side of his delicate neck . John stuck his fingers in the holes between the buttons with one hand and teased the soft skin underneath before laughing and carefully raising the loop of the tie over Sherlock's head. It caught in his curly bangs and parted them funny, leaving John no choice but to rake his fingers through them to set them back in place. Then he set about undoing the rest of the buttons and pulling the halves apart. He shifted his hips from between Sherlock's legs enough to continue the rubbing pressure between their groins as he did so. When the last button was popped, and the shirt was untucked from Sherlock's stubborn belt, John pushed the pieces off his slender shoulders and soaked in the sight of Sherlock's naked chest as he threw it into their collective pile of discarded clothes.

Even gazing at Sherlock's scrunched torso and beautiful front now, John let the intimacy come back as he traced his fingers over the bones and valleys and even the hardening peaks of Sherlock's nipples. With his breath raspy and stomach coiling, John was surprised by the lawyer once again when he lay back against the blanket and made a beckoning motion with his fingers.

The shepherd, still clad in his grey tank, popped a quizzical brow at Sherlock as he wriggled around him, obviously kicking off his shoes and pulling his socks off with his toes. John took the funny silence to do the same, throwing both pairs into the mass. When he returned his gaze to Sherlock, the man looked his torso up and down and said, "Off."

"Pushy pushy," John laughed. He loved being able to talk to Sherlock while so desperately longing to be inside of him. He obliged to the command, however, when he crossed his arms at his stomach as slowly began peeling the last layer off his warm skin.

"Too slow," Sherlock said as he batted John's hands away and shed him of the layer in one quick motion, over his arms and head. 

"Someone's eager," John muttered, realigning himself in between Sherlock's legs and laying himself down against Sherlock's bare skin. He nearly moaned at the feeling, Sherlock so warm and soft under him. _So soft for someone so sharp and bony,_ John said to himself.

"Since yesterday," Sherlock said. John grumbled appreciation as he continued, "Not usually like that. Consider yourself a lucky first."

"I'll take it," John offered, spurred on by the thought of Sherlock wanting him desperately since they'd first met. "And I should say the same. For you."

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said as arrogantly as he could with breathless moans escaping his throat, John grinding into him again. "I'm irresistible."

John rubbed his bare chest over Sherlock's as he moved to his ear, "Prick." He bit the tender skin of Sherlock's neck and stopped him from retorting. He moaned quite embarrassingly loud and John felt the dull ache of arousal spark back to undeniable need. "Less talking," he ordered. "More fucking."

"Now who's the eager - oh!" Sherlock interrupted himself as John wormed a hand between them and began palming his groin, which felt much harder and desperate under his fingers. John decided to make Sherlock squeal again by nipping and sucking at his neck in a different spot as his fingers flicked open his silver belt buckle. One hand guided Sherlock's hips up as he slid the belt off and tossed it away, losing no time in unclasping the button of his trousers. 

When Sherlock came back from grumbling and calling out John's name due to the love bites, his own hands fumbled with John's trousers, successfully ripping them open quick enough to plunge a hand in faster than John could.

"Christ - " John rutted his hips into Sherlock's hand, which was now squeezing his thick cock through his pants.

"Oh…" whimpered Sherlock. "You're so…"

 _Big? Hard? Big? Yeah. Now touch me more, you idiot._ John commanded in his head, his mouth otherwise preoccupied with Sherlock's lips once again. Sherlock complied wordlessly, giving a final tug before his nimble fingers dipped below the waistband and sought John's tender skin. John was mirroring the action, struggling to keep up with the touches as he pushed his own hand into Sherlock's pants, finding his solid cock and wrapping his hand around its length and squeezing gently. Sherlock arched his back and tipped his head into the straw bedding, moaning a soundless cry with a wide open mouth. 

Although the position was somewhat awkward, with John laying atop Sherlock, his hand stroking him as Sherlock lay underneath, doing the same, the pleasure was all there. The sweet compression of a gentle hand brought some release to the aching stiffness, and the more the men moaned or moved, the more forceful the other would stroke. It was a balance of touch and be touched, of sun-kissed skin against pale cream: offset, swaying forms in the dusty barn loft. 

Soon, however, John couldn't just feel the heat of Sherlock's hand, and removed his own so as to sit up and shift himself against Sherlock. Looking down at the blushing beauty with lust-drooped eyes, John rode his trousers low on his hips and freed his cock, earning a satisfied hum of approval from his partner. Without hesitation, he pulled out Sherlock's own and tugged his trousers down as well, then pressed their cocks together, earning him another small moan from Sherlock and a happy hiss from himself. 

He rocked into Sherlock's hips like that, leaning himself down and letting Sherlock move his legs around comfortably. He wrapped his arms around John's strong neck and squeezed as John ground again as his strong hand squeezed them together, his spine rolling and leaving his back muscles to catch the shadows in their valleys. He felt the coarse, dark hair at Sherlock's pelvis grinding into his own, as well as his contracting abdomen beneath him, quivering with breathiness. 

Once again they passed the time until it was too much, the pleasure keeping them stuck in the in-between of comfortable high and perky libido. John's groans became restless grunts as Sherlock's moans became yelps, the pressure and force of their thrusts nearly too much to hold out. John was sure he'd last, but it was definitely harder when Sherlock did everything right and was perfectly intune to the workings of his body. 

Finally, after a particularly mortifying growl, John slowed and denied Sherlock's trembling form as he pulled away and moved down in the hay and away from the lock of Sherlock's legs. Whining, Sherlock looked at him with a flushed face, bitten neck, and pink, heaving chest. John let himself admire the V-cut of his hips and the curls at the base of his long, pale cock before reaching with both hands for the cuff of his dress trousers and yanking them off swiftly. 

Sherlock seemed to repress a laugh as he covered his face with his hands. John reached for his blue pants ( _Of course, blue,)_ and slid those down as well. When all exposed, slender and long, Sherlock squeezed his thighs together as John looked.

God, did he _look._ All the lines and shadows in Sherlock's body cast him as a wonderful renaissance painting, with the almost red glow of the sunset enveloping his naked form as it lay against the patched blanket on top of the hay. His curls were messy around his face and his cock was flushed at the tip and topped with a pearl or two of precome, sitting pretty amidst his taut hips. John reached out two warm hands and slid up his calves and supple thighs, swooping over his sides and back down again. 

John wanted to say so many things to the beauty before him. He wanted to give endless praise, not only for the top quality of his body, but for the ability of his mind and the willingness of his heart. All he found his throat squeaking, however, was, "You want this?"

Sherlock uncovered his face with his arm and looked at John with sheer compassion and adoration. "Yes, John, I do." He whispered so quietly that John was hit once again with the realization that it was just them there… Just them. 

John gave another sentimental run of his palms over Sherlock's sizzling skin as he mouthed, "Me too," before bringing his lips tenderly to the spot right above Sherlock's navel.

* * *

The lawyer watched from his spot against the blanket as John kissed his stomach, illuminated by a rosy halo from the window beside him. He had been so kind to Sherlock, and so bloody _good_ at everything he'd done. Careful when careful was right and rough when Sherlock needed more. Sherlock was overwhelmed by sentiment for the man, especially as the intimacy of the small loft made every movement slow and worthy of being stored forever in Sherlock's mind. The flutter of John's blond lashes, the roll of his spine when their bodies aligned, how he laughed at and with Sherlock while the pleasure took them, the feel of the stubble against his neck, chest, and stomach, and how he could transitioned from a joy to talk to to the most seductive man Sherlock had ever met. He was strong but tender, firm but soft, and gracious as he was commanding. Sherlock had never seen such a match or him, especially one who he desired in the way he only ever hoped to desire someone - totally and wholly lost to the blatant, wanton _hunger._

And he loved it, he really did. He loved the way his stomach dropped and how there seemed to be endless amounts of whimpers and moans trapped in his lungs, all attached to a touch of John's name. He loved how he felt red hot and properly teased when John touched him, and how he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around him and ride out the last of the pleasures until they fell asleep in the hay. He wasn't even ashamed of his sentimentality, not at all. John treated him like a gorgeous prince, pampering and adoring him, and Sherlock soaked it all up. 

He'd never been so content with a lover, and it was something he didn't think he'd find with anyone else. 

John's bristly chin pulled him out of his reflection as he kissed a path down his stomach and all the way to his groin. He braced his warm hands on Sherlock's thighs as he flicked his blue eyes up at him from beside his cock, his hot breath steaming up the tender skin. With a plead of 'Can I?' in his eyes, John squeezed Sherlock's tight thighs. Sherlock responded by lacing his fingers through his golden hair and glancing down at his own expectant cock. 

Obliging happily, John sucked the ruddy tip into his expert lips and immediately sunk Sherlock into pleasure once again, this time a mix of wet heat and wonderful suction. He was perfect as he went, his jaw opening up to swallow of Sherlock easily. He bobbed his head with a slight swivel, sucking in his cheeks and pressing his tongue against the underside with every stroke. Watching him was almost too much, even, so Sherlock had to let his head fall back into the hay and just let the pleasure take over. 

It did, easily, and soon the brown slopes of the wooden rafter above became blurry with a lavender haze, Sherlock's core and groin tightening and with the threat of coming undone. John must have sensed this, because after a moment of slow, languid strokes, he pulled up with a pop and spoke in a husky tone. 

"Hey," he whispered, his hand moving to scale the expanse of Sherlock's torso. "You alright?"

"S-so good…" whimpered Sherlock, a broken moan trapped in his raspy throat. 

"Is it too much?" John asked. 

Sherlock sighed, _You're perfect. God, you're so perfect._ "No… Come here." 

So John did, and as he went, he shimmied out of his own trousers and pants, which were so annoyingly in the way. He kneeled beside Sherlock's head, his ever-present erection still thick and beautiful against his pretty skin. "What is it - oh, f-fuck…" 

Sherlock had turned himself on his side, a welcome change from his constant position on his back, and had taken John in his mouth quickly, his hand cradling his undercarriage gently. He sucked with the same passionate vigor John had, careful to document the shudder in his legs and clenches of his fists as he did so. He took pride in how his sharp cheekbones hollowed when he sucked, and it seemed John did too, because he gripped Sherlock's shoulders helplessly.

After a few minutes of that, John cursing under his breath all the while, Sherlock sensed the familiar rocking of a needy near-orgasm, and he slowed to a stop and ended with a fat lick with the flat of his tongue from the base to the head. 

"Wh-what was that about?" John asked stupidly, somehow still surprised by the neediness of Sherlock's actions. Perhaps he thought Sherlock uncomfortable and didn't expect to be sucked off instead of sucking off, or maybe he hoped for Sherlock to tell him exactly what he wanted in hushed tones. Either way, John was surprised, and an awe-struck look, mixed with absolute gratitude, crossed his face.

"I wanted to taste you first," Sherlock said, something he'd be disgusted at if he hadn't truly meant it. And, he supposed, if it hadn't been John. 

John dipped his head and brought it up with a swoop of his fingers through his hair and down over his face, scratching over his short beard as if to signal 'That was so bloody hot, I don't even know what to do.'

Apparently he'd also understood Sherlock's implications of the word, "first," because soon he was shuffling back to his spot near Sherlock's legs, kissing his knees and moving his hands down and under his thighs.

Fully encouraged now, John lifted Sherlock's thighs up and twisted him back onto his back before pushing his thighs up so his arse was tight and everything sensitive was exposed.

"John…" Sherlock moaned. He felt the heat of John's gaze as it looked down at him, and Sherlock's tender opening twitched in response. With one look back up at John's face, Sherlock could deduce that John was wondering what was off-base. He licked his lips, eyes still roaming Sherlock's stretched arse. _You're too obvious._ "John." Sherlock commanded. "Do as you please."

The fit shepherd darted his eyes back up as if he were a boy caught with a lecherous magazine by his mother. Startled, he tried his best to be respectful. "But do _you_ please?"

Constant worry was actually a bit annoying at this point, Sherlock decided. He just wanted to be fucked good and hard. He rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh, John's hands still pressing his thighs tight against his stomach. "Obviously." 

John mocked him, "Obviously." His bright smile was as stunning as the hidden sun just outside, although the purples and reds of the disappearing light matched the marks on Sherlock's neck more than the dazzling spread of John's nippy teeth. 

 _Do I have to beg for it!?_ Sherlock thought. "Well then...?" He gestured with his eyes towards his upside-down cock and needy arse.

John didn't need to be told a third time, because soon he was lifting Sherlock with incredible strength and scooting his thighs under Sherlock's spine, lifting his arse even higher. Once situated with a very needy, very twitchy expanse in front of him, John bent his head down and pressed the slick flat of his tongue over Sherlock's sensitive ring of muscle. 

Immediately, Sherlock felt a shiver up his spine at the welcome wetness. John continued on after the shudder, lapping wonderfully at Sherlock's rim as it expanded, torturing him with his surprising talent. He switched from circling the tip of his tongue over the taut muscle to slipping his tongue inside, flicking and squirming it as deep as it could go. Like when John swallowed him down before, Sherlock couldn't watch. The way John moved his jaw, similar to when he kissed Sherlock's mouth, was too much, and he had to let his curly head fall back.

He succumbed to the new pleasure. He'd heard about it and definitely wanted to try it, but none of his previous lovers (if you could call them that) had ever taken the time to do so. Nothing really compared with John and everything that he did, actually, so it was all new. 

After an eternity of shivers and gasps and even a little bit of drool slipping down the corner of his mouth, Sherlock was wide and needy and slick. With a breathy gasp, Sherlock called to John by his name, earning a final lick and a tender little pat of his wide arse. 

John wasn't done, however, and Sherlock had no time to recuperate as he captured Sherlock's cock again with his lips, sinking down delicately so the head nudged the back of his throat. Once more Sherlock found himself rocking into the wet pleasure, eager for more friction but wary of spending too soon. He tried to think of something else, but all that crossed his mind besides John's name and the filthy smile he gave him. 

Sherlock wondered how John was holding out, considering he was doing fairly poorly. John was incredible, and even from Sherlock's little experience, he found that a particularly heated night up with military magazines and a box of tissues had him coming in five to seven minutes. Now they'd been at it for a good while, and Sherlock was sure that he wasn't the only one trying to edge. 

He thought himself correct when he caught a glimpse of John furrowing his brows and jerking suddenly, bringing a hand up from between his legs and clenching it tightly. He never let up on the process from his mouth, however, and Sherlock's cock received only the best treatment as it disappeared between John's red lips and glistened when it reappeared. 

However, this gratification was cut off when John pulled back. Sherlock grumbled as he waited for whatever was to happen next, peeking at John after a few seconds of silence. John had withdrawn two fingers from his mouth, which Sherlock saw were wet, and immediately returned to satisfying Sherlock with his mouth. Those fingers, Sherlock felt, circled around his tender rim before John slipped one in, almost straight down to the third knuckle. 

The lawyer gasped at the touch, his insides flexing around John's finger. John didn't let up at Sherlock's groin, one hand flat against his bum, the other twisting inside him, his tongue trailing circles over the head. 

Again, Sherlock began gasping John's name, this time more breathless as the shepherd slipped inside a second finger, pushing and pulling relentlessly, only letting up to add more slick directly from his mouth. John played Sherlock like a violin, with nimble fingers and a sweet hum against his instrument. He curled his fingers at differently angles, eventually brushing the sweet spot that had always had Sherlock coming undone. He teased it, twisting against and away from it so as not to overload Sherlock with sensation. In response, Sherlock bucked and grabbed at anything he could, previously unaware to the multiple forms of sex offered with an intelligent lover. 

Blissful minutes ticked on, lewd sounds carrying through the empty barn, as well as an unspoken truth that soon the men would need to have the other completely. It was wonderful and fantasy-like, and since John never seemed to tire, Sherlock was immensely thankful. However, the ache of near-release became an almost painful threat, and Sherlock could only force down his coiling appetite for so long.

John must have agreed, or else his wrist had tired from pressing two fingers deep against Sherlock's hot insides, for he soon slowed to a stop and retracted all touch, leaving Sherlock quivering with anticipation. John huffed a breath and pushed Sherlock away from his thighs, stretching his back and rolling his neck. 

The lawyer watched in sated fascination as John looked down at his own groin and wiped the last of the dampness over the blushing head of his excited cock. He then looked back up at Sherlock, his eyes full of lust a just a bit of sleepy wonder.

Sherlock, still hot all over, arched his back as a breeze from the open window brushed over his skin. The cool trail of wind was welcome, for it brought him down from the heavens and enabled him to find his voice. "John…"

"Sherlock?" his gracious partner responded as he crawled forward and in-between Sherlock's legs, placing both hands on either side of Sherlock's shoulders.

"You're fantastic."

A smile and then, "I know."

They kissed again, John lowering himself tenderly against Sherlock's form, their lips touching as gently as the breeze. This kiss was innocent and well deserved after the intense mess they'd uncurled from. 

But it wasn't over yet, and John kissed a path across Sherlock's cheek to his ear. He pressed his lips to the shell before mouthing, "Ready?"

Sherlock turned his face into the space between John's neck and clavicle and kissed him there lovingly. He breathed, "Yes," into John's skin.

On cue, John's hands found Sherlock's hips and shifted him against the blanket as Sherlock spread his thighs wider. John moved one hand up to Sherlock's lips and let him suckle on his fingers one final time before he worked the hand between them to align the head of his cock with Sherlock's entrance. His heart beat so quickly that Sherlock could feel it in his chest, and his eyelashes fluttered against Sherlock's forehead, his breath still hot in his ear. 

Sherlock sighed deeply as John pressed on, the wide head stretching him until the pink rim of muscle hugged it down to the ridge. John kissed Sherlock's neck, muttering incoherent praise as he pushed on again. He sunk down to the base and stopped as he waited for Sherlock's command. 

It wasn't painful, necessarily, because it ought not to be, but there was still a stretch as he accustomed to John's girth and length. Sherlock felt full with the hotness snug inside him, however, and it was different from any quick shag than he'd had before. It was right and lovely and his heart fluttered at the thought that just the day before he'd been discussing with John about… Well, he didn't actually remember. All Sherlock remembered was the sound of John's voice when he said his name and the way he held him now, his scruffy jaw pressing into his neck as the solid weight of him lay flat on Sherlock's torso.

But it didn't matter what happened yesterday or that afternoon or the next day, what mattered was that John was perfect and for the moment, he was all Sherlock's. 

So he took the opportunity fully, kissing the bit of skin closest to his mouth and breathing a hot breath against it, forming words with sighs more than sounds. "John…" 

"Sherlock…" John responded, the desperate desire in his voice making it the most beautiful sound Sherlock had ever heard.

He squeezed all of his muscles in an attempt to wrap John up tighter as he turned to nuzzle his head into him. "Now..."

John obeyed, pulling out slowly as the slick from their mouths settled around him. He pushed in again, so deep that Sherlock could feel his hipbones on the back of his thighs. The thrusts steadily increased after that, the roll of his hips causing Sherlock's heart to drop into his stomach. Soon, the spark returned along with the movement, and John's groans caused Sherlock to disappear into his lavender haze once again. 

At first the pleasure was slow and burning, the loft ringing with soft mutters and occasional gasps. Sherlock held onto John will all his might, clenching his internal muscles and rocking into John greedily.

Then the desperation returned and John roughly shifted Sherlock's hips so he could touch every new spot inside of him. That's when Sherlock began catching up with his denied release, when John kept his eyes closed as his strong hands found pale flesh and gripped it. Sherlock's arms and legs went weak from the sensation of John rubbing inside him, and his hands fell into the hay on either side of his head.

The pressure didn't let up, nor did John's merciless thrusts, but Sherlock felt a shuffle of weight along with two warm hands lacing their fingers between his own. 

That act of sentiment alone had Sherlock spinning, and his whiny yelps only spurred John on. Soon he was flipping them over, fluffs of golden hay scattering on the breeze. Sherlock sat atop John now, their hands still locked. He ground his hips and bit his lip as he sunk down onto John. 

The shepherd planted his feet and bent his knees so he could thrust up into Sherlock, but he was pushing down, so every bounce was matched in force. And, as much as Sherlock was losing himself, eyes closed, lips slack, embarrassing sounds escaping his throat without warning, he found himself eager to see John's face. So he peeked amidst the rocking, and his breathless gasp caught in his throat.

John was beautiful, bathed in the dark purple light the sunset left them in. His eyes were closed, his brows were knit, and his swollen bottom lip was caught by his top teeth. His chest heaved with the weight of Sherlock's body, and the columns in his neck strained when he breathed. Sherlock felt his stomach spark when one ridiculously animalistic noise arose from his mouth, his nails digging into Sherlock's knuckles.

At this, he found he ought to say something. 

"J-John," he said, still riding him, fingers tightening in their grip, "You're so g-good. So b-bloody good…"

The man didn't respond, if he heard him at all. He just kept groaning, tipping his head into the tangled mess of blanket.

Sherlock tried again. "John. John, you're so, God, you're so… You're so… F-fuck…"

John finally heard his, responding by rolling them over once again and locking his knees into the hay. With an approving, "Yes, Sherlock," he released Sherlock's hands and used his incredible strength to pick Sherlock up by the torso and spin him onto his stomach, cock still buried inside him. 

Surprised by the sudden roughness, Sherlock scrambled for balance and grabbed at handfuls of the blanket, exposed hay poking through the gaps in his fingers. John then continued to pound into him, one hand pressing into the small of Sherlock's back while the other gripped the narrowest bit of his waist. Unable to catch his breath once John shifted his angle and came dangerously close to rubbing his prostate, Sherlock muffled his moans into his arms.

"N-no…" John demanded. "I want to hear you."

The lawyer didn't think John was watching him, and the strangeness of it almost made him laugh, but a particularly deep rotation caused him to break from his arm and gasp, snapping his head up clenching his internal muscles. 

A chant of "God, fuck, yes, Sherlock, oh, God, yes, Sherlock, Sherlock, fuck," soon made its appearance as John pushed on rougher, nearly losing control against Sherlock's body.

Sherlock responded with a shout of John's name, at which the shepherd flipped him over again and immediately pressed on between his spread thighs, palming Sherlock's dripping cock into his stomach. Again, Sherlock pulled John to him with weak arms. He messily sought his mouth and kissed him hard, licking into his mouth and receiving the lewd taste of John's tongue. The kiss was crude, as was the rhythm John thrusted now, but the need to come was undeniable and Sherlock was so, _so_ close.

He held on just a bit longer as he raked one hand down John's back and found his taut arse, leaving red lines and half-moon rivets in his skin. John must've loved this because his body shuddered as he pressed Sherlock down into the hay. It was scratchy and uncomfortable against Sherlock's bare back, but was more preoccupied with the hot fullness coiling in his lower stomach and the straining ache of his groin. 

John had pulled his mouth back from Sherlock's and was saying something into his cheek, but Sherlock couldn't hear it over his own eager moans. Ironically, his loud, complicated mind was quiet with only the chant of John's name in it, the hot spark shooting through his core replacing any and all deductions. 

Finally, John's words came through, direct and hot in Sherlock's ear. He was muttering that he was about to come, and while Sherlock responded with something incoherent, his mind pulled out one last trick and sent a message to the hand on John's rear.

His core scrunched up against John's as he reached far and let his fingertips find the crevice of John's arse. It was damp and just a bit slick from whatever wetness dripped down when Sherlock rode him. John was close to coming undone, as was Sherlock, but with his final spur of energy, Sherlock slipped his long middle finger inside John's rim.

Surprised, John groaned and clamped down on Sherlock's neck, scruffy beard scraping a rash along his clavicle. Sherlock stretched farther and dipped his fingertip deeper, his other hand pulling at the solidity of John's hip. John reacted by rolling his hips and pressing up and into Sherlock's prostate with one extremely powerful thrust.

Sherlock raised his head and moaned into John's shoulder, snapping and coming undone as John pressed in again and again at that perfect spot, his finger never letting up from its snug hook inside John. Still rocking, Sherlock's limbs went jittery as his eyes rolled up behind his eyelids, blissed out from the deep, powerful pleasure sparking inside of him. With a cry, he succumbed to the glory and came against his stomach, his cock pulsing under John's palm as it streaked his stomach in silver come. John must have felt it, along with the contractions, because soon he pressed in, hard, and locked, shuddering as his own orgasm took him, the soft "Sh" sound of the lawyer's name still on his lips. 

Sherlock let his head fall back into the hay, his limbs going weak and falling off of John's electric skin. John jerked once more as he thrusted slowly into him, his back rolling in a languid grind, riding out the last of his paroxysm. 

Then he collapsed atop him with a huff, just as sated and weak as Sherlock.

Sleepy, tranquil minutes passed as the sweat and slick of their bodies chilled with the early night breeze. John's breath was warm on Sherlock's neck, the only thing moving in the stillness of the loft.

* * *

John pulled himself out of sleep purely with the memory of his sheep. He was sore, tired, and wet against Sherlock's body, so all he could do was kiss his skin and whisper. "Sherlock…"

The lawyer awoke gently, squeezing his thighs before remembering that John was still inside him. "Hm…" he groaned.

"I need to let my sheep in."

"That's… That's what you're thinking about?" the deep baritone rumbled.

John awoke his fingers by making circles on Sherlock's skin. "Well, no… Yes. Kind of."

"Idiot."

He looked up into Sherlock's face, which was placid and devoid of any blush or moan. "Back to your usual self, I see."

Sherlock rolled his head and attempted to look down at John. "Why, you think sex would shake out all personality?"

"No. It's just funny." He shifted against the uncomfortable wetness between them. 

"You're the funny one."

"Oh?"

Sherlock's hand was now stroking John's back, his thighs massaging John's hips as if to keep him warm. "Yes. You're this grumpy little man in the middle of nowhere with the best damn fuck I've ever had."

"Ah, well… You're pretty great yourself." John's mind finally could separate external and internal dialogue once again, so he let himself say the ridiculously sentimental things he didn't want to admit to just yet. _More than great. Incredible. Mind-blowing. Surprising, different, and so, so bloody sexy._

"No need to hold back, John. I'll take any compliment I can get."

John looked up with a smile and half a laugh. "Oh, will you? Cocky arse."

"Speaking of cock and arse…" Sherlock shimmied his hips. "Get off."

"Sorry, sorry…" John muttered as he recalled his strength and pulled himself up and out of Sherlock. Evidence of their coupling dripped out of his reddened rim, a sight John definitely would store in his wank bank for future reference. 

He looked away quickly, slightly worried Sherlock would take back all of the intimacy they'd shared. He was about to stand up and collect his clothes, even, when a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, immediately pulling him back down. Sherlock turned onto his side and pulled John into him, curling his large body around him and entangling their legs.

"Don't go…" he whispered as he nestled his face into John's neck.

"I won't." John kissed Sherlock's hand which was splayed across his chest. "You're the one has to go, anyway…" John immediately hated himself for saying it, and he grimaced.

Sherlock groaned, "Don't remind me."

"I sort of forgot why you came in the first place." 

"Me too." Silence, then, "Oh, it was about the land."

John rolled his head into Sherlock's shoulder behind him. "Right. Fuck. What're we going to do?"

"I think I can figure out a compromise with my brother. He and my father both have soft spots, and I'm sure I can find them if I really try. There's plenty here that I've seen that can convince them to move the project somewhere else."

"Celine and the rest of the sheep?" 

"Yes… and you. Unless you want it to just be for us. Our own little secret."

"Sort of," John admitted, sinking into the embrace around him.

"I'll figure it out."

"I'm sure you will, genius."

"But what else happens?"

John thought for a moment, "I suppose Mycroft could come and - "

"No." Sherlock interrupted. "What happens with us?"

 _There's an us? God, John, of course there is. This is what you want. He is what you want._ "Don't know. What do you want?"

"I want to stay."

"Right, I got that. Other than that."

"I want you."

It was such a simple idea, but it held the incredible weight when Sherlock said it. It was amazing. "…I want you, too." 

"So what now?"

 _You can move out here with me,_ John joked. "Do you have to stay in the city all the time?"

"Not really. But I do have duties there, outside of the office. Your sheep wouldn't like it in the city, I take it?"

John laughed, mostly at the ridiculousness of how they were basically discussing moving in together a day after meeting. It felt so much longer, obviously. "No, they wouldn't. Let's do this…" he moved an arm behind him and patted Sherlcok's rump. He squeaked. "I'll stay here, and you can visit me anytime. When you can't come out, for one reason or another, I'll get a sheep-sitter and stay with you. If you want…" John thought about Jezebel, William's granddaughter. With a bit of coaxing, she might be willing to tend the sheep for a few days. He'd pay her, obviously. 

John was excited by the possibility of it all working out, but he awaited Sherlock's response with bated breath. 

The man curled tighter around him, "I think it could work…" he said. 

"I think we could work," John said quickly, slapping himself mentally for admitting it.

"I think we already work," the lawyer cooed. 

John smiled and nuzzled his chin on Sherlock's wrist. He could honestly say that he'd never been so happy. So he did. "I've never been so happy."

"Don't get sappy on me, shepherd."

"Fine." John started to move away, pulling Sherlock's arms from his body.

The lawyer clamped them down and yanked him back in, kissing his ear. "I'm happy, too. Incredibly." He whispered.

And John believed him. He really, really did.

They stayed like that for a bit longer, ignoring the hunger and chill that creeped in them, purely so they could stay in the perfection of the loft, the magic of that one moment. John was content in everything, at having found that new thing he needed in the form of a handsome, intelligent lawyer, that all his previous decisions seemed just right. They led him to Sherlock, thus none of them were inherently bad. Of course, he tried to keep himself from leaping to too many conclusions about them, but there was one thought that kept coming back to him like huffs of warm breath on his neck. This was that he was undeniably falling in love, or at least well on his way, with the man draped around him.

Smiling like an idiot, the shepherd didn't deny it as he lay with Sherlock in the hay, the purples and blues of the skies enveloping the barn and the surrounding sheep like a gorgeous piece of navy lace.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up the intimacy with allusions to spirituality and pregnant animals then transitioning into hardcore sex lol 
> 
> Pretty sure this is the longest sex scene I've ever written, and I've written plenty of long sex scenes. I'm really passionate about continual consent and foreplay, so let's hope it didn't make it drone on too long!
> 
> also barn sex is hottest sex...

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many tone shifts in this fic, it's incredible. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it! I write a lot of johnlock fics, spanning from lil ficlets to 80k slow-burners, so please check them out!
> 
> also follow my [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) for more updates and johnlock
> 
> ♥ crimsonwinter ♥


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